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of James II., by Thomas Babington Macaulay
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Title: The History of England from the Accession of James II.
Volume 3 (of 5)
Author: Thomas Babington Macaulay
Posting Date: June 23, 2008 [EBook #2612]
Release Date: May, 2001
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORY OF ENGLAND ***
Produced by Martin Adamson
THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE ACCESSION OF JAMES THE SECOND
VOLUME III
(Chapters XI-XVI)
by Thomas Babington Macaulay
DETAILED CONTENTS:
CHAPTER XI
William and Mary proclaimed in London
Rejoicings throughout England; Rejoicings in Holland
Discontent of the Clergy and of the Army
Reaction of Public Feeling
Temper of the Tories
Temper of the Whigs
Ministerial Arrangements
William his own Minister for Foreign Affairs
Danby
Halifax
Nottingham Shrewsbury The Board of Admiralty; the Board of Treasury
The Great Seal
The Judges
The Household
Subordinate Appointments
The Convention turned into a Parliament
The Members of the two Houses required to take the Oaths Questions relating to the Revenue
Abolition of the Hearth Money
Repayment of the Expenses of the United Provinces
Mutiny at Ipswich
The first Mutiny Bill
Suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act
Unpopularity of William
Popularity of Mary
The Court removed from Whitehall to Hampton Court
The Court at Kensington; William's foreign Favourites
General Maladministration
Dissensions among Men in Office
Department of Foreign Affairs
Religious Disputes
The High Church Party
The Low Church Party
William's Views concerning Ecclesiastical Polity
Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury
Nottingham's Views concerning Ecclesiastical Polity
The Toleration Bill
The Comprehension Bill
The Bill for settling the Oaths of Allegiance and Supremacy
The Bill for settling the Coronation Oath
The Coronation
Promotions
The Coalition against France; the Devastation of the Palatinate
War declared against France
CHAPTER XII
State of Ireland at the Time of the Revolution; the Civil Power in the Hands of the Roman Catholics
The Military Power in the Hands of the Roman Catholics
Mutual Enmity between the Englishry and Irishry
Panic among the Englishry
History of the Town of Kenmare
Enniskillen
Londonderry
Closing of the Gates of Londonderry
Mountjoy sent to pacify Ulster
William opens a Negotiation with Tyrconnel
The Temples consulted
Richard Hamilton sent to Ireland on his Parole
Tyrconnel sends Mountjoy and Rice to France
Tyrconnel calls the Irish People to Arms
Devastation of the Country
The Protestants in the South unable to resist
Enniskillen and Londonderry hold out; Richard Hamilton marches into Ulster with an Army
James determines to go to Ireland
Assistance furnished by Lewis to James
Choice of a French Ambassador to accompany James
The Count of Avaux
James lands at Kinsale
James enters Cork
Journey of James from Cork to Dublin
Discontent in England
Factions at Dublin Castle
James determines to go to Ulster
Journey of James to Ulster
The Fall of Londonderry expected
Succours arrive from England
Treachery of Lundy; the Inhabitants of Londonderry resolve to defend themselves
Their Character
Londonderry besieged
The Siege turned into a Blockade
Naval Skirmish in Bantry Bay
A Parliament summoned by James sits at Dublin
A Toleration Act passed; Acts passed for the Confiscation of the Property of Protestants
Issue of base Money
The great Act of Attainder
James prorogues his Parliament; Persecution of the Protestants in Ireland
Effect produced in England by the News from Ireland
Actions of the Enniskilleners
Distress of Londonderry
Expedition under Kirke arrives in Loch Foyle
Cruelty of Rosen
The Famine in Londonderry extreme
Attack on the Boom
The Siege of Londonderry raised
Operations against the Enniskilleners
Battle of Newton Butler
Consternation of the Irish
CHAPTER XIII.
The Revolution more violent in Scotland than in England
Elections for the Convention; Rabbling of the Episcopal Clergy
State of Edinburgh
Question of an Union between England and Scotland raised
Wish of the English Low Churchmen to preserve Episcopacy in Scotland
Opinions of William about Church Government in Scotland
Comparative Strength of Religious Parties in Scotland
Letter from William to the Scotch Convention
William's Instructions to his Agents in Scotland; the Dalrymples
Melville
James's Agents in Scotland: Dundee; Balcarras
Meeting of the Convention
Hamilton elected President
Committee of Elections; Edinburgh Castle summoned
Dundee threatened by the Covenanters
Letter from James to the Convention
Effect of James's Letter
Flight of Dundee
Tumultuous Sitting of the Convention
A Committee appointed to frame a Plan of Government
Resolutions proposed by the Committee
William and Mary proclaimed; the Claim of Right; Abolition of Episcopacy
Torture
William and Mary accept the Crown of Scotland
Discontent of the Covenanters
Ministerial Arrangements in Scotland
Hamilton; Crawford
The Dalrymples; Lockhart; Montgomery
Melville; Carstairs
The Club formed: Annandale; Ross
Hume; Fletcher of Saltoun
War breaks out in the Highlands; State of the Highlands
Peculiar Nature of Jacobitism in the Highlands
Jealousy of the Ascendency of the Campbells
The Stewarts and Macnaghtens
The Macleans; the Camerons: Lochiel
The Macdonalds; Feud between the Macdonalds and Mackintoshes; Inverness
Inverness threatened by Macdonald of Keppoch
Dundee appears in Keppoch's Camp
Insurrection of the Clans hostile to the Campbells
Tarbet's Advice to the Government
Indecisive Campaign in the Highlands
Military Character of the Highlanders
Quarrels in the Highland Army
Dundee applies to James for Assistance; the War in the Highlands suspended
Scruples of the Covenanters about taking Arms for King William
The Cameronian Regiment raised
Edinburgh Castle surrenders
Session of Parliament at Edinburgh
Ascendancy of the Club
Troubles in Athol
The War breaks out again in the Highlands
Death of Dundee
Retreat of Mackay
Effect of the Battle of Killiecrankie; the Scottish Parliament adjourned
The Highland Army reinforced
Skirmish at Saint Johnston's
Disorders in the Highland Army
Mackay's Advice disregarded by the Scotch Ministers
The Cameronians stationed at Dunkeld
The Highlanders attack the Cameronians and are repulsed
Dissolution of the Highland Army; Intrigues of the Club; State of the Lowlands
CHAPTER XIV
Disputes in the English Parliament
The Attainder of Russell reversed
Other Attainders reversed; Case of Samuel Johnson
Case of Devonshire
Case of Oates
Bill of Rights
Disputes about a Bill of Indemnity
Last Days of Jeffreys
The Whigs dissatisfied with the King
Intemperance of Howe
Attack on Caermarthen
Attack on Halifax
Preparations for a Campaign in Ireland
Schomberg
Recess of the Parliament
State of Ireland; Advice of Avaux
Dismission of Melfort; Schomberg lands in Ulster
Carrickfergus taken
Schomberg advances into Leinster; the English and Irish Armies encamp near each other
Schomberg declines a Battle
Frauds of the English Commissariat
Conspiracy among the French Troops in the English Service
Pestilence in the English Army
The English and Irish Armies go into Winter Quarters
Various Opinions about Schomberg's Conduct
Maritime Affairs
Maladministration of Torrington
Continental Affairs
Skirmish at Walcourt
Imputations thrown on Marlborough
Pope Innocent XI. succeeded by Alexander VIII.
The High Church Clergy divided on the Subject of the Oaths
Arguments for taking the Oaths
Arguments against taking the Oaths
A great Majority of the Clergy take the Oaths
The Nonjurors; Ken
Leslie
Sherlock
Hickes
Collier
Dodwell
Kettlewell; Fitzwilliam
General Character of the Nonjuring Clergy
The Plan of Comprehension; Tillotson
An Ecclesiastical Commission issued.
Proceedings of the Commission
The Convocation of the Province of Canterbury summoned; Temper of the Clergy
The Clergy ill affected towards the King
The Clergy exasperated against the Dissenters by the Proceedings of the Scotch Presbyterians
Constitution of the Convocation
Election of Members of Convocation; Ecclesiastical Preferments bestowed,
Compton discontented
The Convocation meets
The High Churchmen a Majority of the Lower House of Convocation
Difference between the two Houses of Convocation
The Lower House of Convocation proves unmanageable.
The Convocation prorogued
CHAPTER XV
The Parliament meets; Retirement of Halifax
Supplies voted
The Bill of Rights passed
Inquiry into Naval Abuses
Inquiry into the Conduct of the Irish War
Reception of Walker in England
Edmund Ludlow
Violence of the Whigs
Impeachments
Committee of Murder
Malevolence of John Hampden
The Corporation Bill
Debates on the Indemnity Bill
Case of Sir Robert Sawyer
The King purposes to retire to Holland
He is induced to change his Intention; the Whigs oppose his going to Ireland
He prorogues the Parliament
Joy of the Tories
Dissolution and General Election
Changes in the Executive Departments
Caermarthen Chief Minister
Sir John Lowther
Rise and Progress of Parliamentary Corruption in England
Sir John Trevor
Godolphin retires; Changes at the Admiralty
Changes in the Commissions of Lieutenancy
Temper of the Whigs; Dealings of some Whigs with Saint Germains; Shrewsbury; Ferguson
Hopes of the Jacobites
Meeting of the new Parliament; Settlement of the Revenue
Provision for the Princess of Denmark
Bill declaring the Acts of the preceding Parliament valid
Debate on the Changes in the Lieutenancy of London
Abjuration Bill
Act of Grace
The Parliament prorogued; Preparations for the first War
Administration of James at Dublin
An auxiliary Force sent from France to Ireland
Plan of the English Jacobites; Clarendon, Aylesbury, Dartmouth
Penn
Preston
The Jacobites betrayed by Fuller
Crone arrested
Difficulties of William
Conduct of Shrewsbury
The Council of Nine
Conduct of Clarendon
Penn held to Bail
Interview between William and Burnet; William sets out for Ireland
Trial of Crone
Danger of Invasion and Insurrection; Tourville's Fleet in the
Channel
Arrests of suspected Persons
Torrington ordered to give Battle to Tourville
Battle of Beachy Head
Alarm in London; Battle of Fleurus
Spirit of the Nation
Conduct of Shrewsbury
CHAPTER XVI
William lands at Carrickfergus, and proceeds to Belfast
State of Dublin; William's military Arrangements
William marches southward
The Irish Army retreats
The Irish make a Stand at the Boyne
The Army of James
The Army of William
Walker, now Bishop of Derry, accompanies the Army
William reconnoitres the Irish Position; William is wounded
Battle of the Boyne
Flight of James
Loss of the two Armies
Fall of Drogheda; State of Dublin
James flies to France; Dublin evacuated by the French and Irish Troops
Entry of William into Dublin
Effect produced in France by the News from Ireland
Effect produced at Rome by the News from Ireland
Effect produced in London by the News from Ireland
James arrives in France; his Reception there
Tourville attempts a Descent on England
Teignmouth destroyed
Excitement of the English Nation against the French
The Jacobite Press
The Jacobite Form of Prayer and Humiliation
Clamour against the nonjuring Bishops
Military Operations in Ireland; Waterford taken
The Irish Army collected at Limerick; Lauzun pronounces that the Place cannot be defended
The Irish insist on defending Limerick
Tyrconnel is against defending Limerick; Limerick defended by the Irish alone
Sarsfield surprises the English Artillery
Arrival of Baldearg O'Donnel at Limerick
The Besiegers suffer from the Rains
Unsuccessful Assault on Limerick; The Siege raised
Tyrconnel and Lauzun go to France; William returns to England; Reception of William in England
Expedition to the South of Ireland
Marlborough takes Cork
Marlborough takes Kinsale
Affairs of Scotland; Intrigues of Montgomery with the Jacobites
War in the Highlands
Fort William built; Meeting of the Scottish Parliament
Melville Lord High Commissioner; the Government obtains a Majority
Ecclesiastical Legislation
The Coalition between the Club and the Jacobites dissolved
The Chiefs of the Club betray each other
General Acquiescence in the new Ecclesiastical Polity
Complaints of the Episcopalians
The Presbyterian Conjurors
William dissatisfied with the Ecclesiastical Arrangements in Scotland
Meeting of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland
State of Affairs on the Continent
The Duke of Savoy joins the Coalition
Supplies voted; Ways and Means
Proceedings against Torrington
Torrington's Trial and Acquittal
Animosity of the Whigs against Caermarthen
Jacobite Plot
Meeting of the leading Conspirators
The Conspirators determine to send Preston to Saint Germains
Papers entrusted to Preston
Information of the Plot given to Caermarthen
Arrest of Preston and his Companions
CHAPTER XI
William and Mary proclaimed in London--Rejoicings throughout
England; Rejoicings in Holland--Discontent of the Clergy and of the
Army--Reaction of Public Feeling--Temper of the Tories--Temper of the
Whigs--Ministerial Arrangements--William his own Minister for Foreign
Affairs--Danby--Halifax--Nottingham Shrewsbury The Board of
Admiralty; the Board of Treasury--The Great Seal--The Judges--The
Household--Subordinate Appointments--The Convention turned into a
Parliament--The Members of the two Houses required to take the
Oaths Questions relating to the Revenue--Abolition of the Hearth
Money--Repayment of the Expenses of the United Provinces--Mutiny
at Ipswich--The first Mutiny Bill--Suspension of the Habeas Corpus
Act--Unpopularity of William--Popularity of Mary--The Court removed from
Whitehall to Hampton Court--The Court at Kensington; William's foreign
Favourites--General Maladministration--Dissensions among Men in
Office--Department of Foreign Affairs--Religious Disputes--The
High Church Party--The Low Church Party--William's Views concerning
Ecclesiastical Polity--Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury--Nottingham's Views
concerning Ecclesiastical Polity--The Toleration Bill--The Comprehension
Bill--The Bill for settling the Oaths of Allegiance and Supremacy--The
Bill for settling the Coronation Oath--The Coronation--Promotions--The
Coalition against France; the Devastation of the Palatinate--War
declared against France
THE Revolution had been accomplished. The decrees of the Convention were
everywhere received with submission. London, true during fifty eventful
years to the cause of civil freedom and of the reformed religion, was
foremost in professing loyalty to the new Sovereigns. Garter King at
arms, after making proclamation under the windows of Whitehall, rode in
state along the Strand to Temple Bar. He was followed by the maces of
the two Houses, by the two Speakers, Halifax and Powle, and by a long
train of coaches filled with noblemen and gentlemen. The magistrates
of the City threw open their gates and joined the procession. Four
regiments of militia lined the way up Ludgate Hill, round Saint Paul's
Cathedral, and along Cheapside. The streets, the balconies, and the very
housetops were crowded with gazers. All the steeples from the Abbey to
the Tower sent forth a joyous din. The proclamation was repeated, with
sound of trumpet, in front of the Royal Exchange, amidst the shouts of
the citizens.
In the evening every window from Whitechapel to Piccadilly was lighted
up. The state rooms of the palace were thrown open, and were filled by a
gorgeous company of courtiers desirous to kiss the hands of the King and
Queen. The Whigs assembled there, flushed with victory and prosperity.
There were among them some who might be pardoned if a vindictive feeling
mingled with their joy. The most deeply injured of all who had survived
the evil times was absent. Lady Russell, while her friends were crowding
the galleries of Whitehall, remained in her retreat, thinking of one
who, if he had been still living, would have held no undistinguished
place in the ceremonies of that great day. But her daughter, who had a
few months before become the wife of Lord Cavendish, was presented to
the royal pair by his mother the Countess of Devonshire. A letter is
still extant in which the young lady described with great vivacity
the roar of the populace, the blaze in the streets, the throng in the
presence chamber, the beauty of Mary, and the expression which ennobled
and softened the harsh features of William. But the most interesting
passage is that in which the orphan girl avowed the stern delight with
which she had witnessed the tardy punishment of her father's murderer.
[1]
The example of London was followed by the provincial towns. During three
weeks the Gazettes were filled with accounts of the solemnities by which
the public joy manifested itself, cavalcades of gentlemen and yeomen,
processions of Sheriffs and Bailiffs in scarlet gowns, musters of
zealous Protestants with orange flags and ribands, salutes, bonfires,
illuminations, music, balls, dinners, gutters running with ale and
conduits spouting claret. [2]
Still more cordial was the rejoicing among the Dutch, when they learned
that the first minister of their Commonwealth had been raised to a
throne. On the very day of his accession he had written to assure the
States General that the change in his situation had made no change in
the affection which he bore to his native land, and that his new dignity
would, he hoped, enable him to discharge his old duties more efficiently
than ever. That oligarchical party, which had always been hostile to the
doctrines of Calvin and to the House of Orange, muttered faintly that
His Majesty ought to resign the Stadtholdership. But all such mutterings
were drowned by the acclamations of a people proud of the genius and
success of their great countryman. A day of thanksgiving was appointed.
In all the cities of the Seven Provinces the public joy manifested
itself by festivities of which the expense was chiefly defrayed by
voluntary gifts. Every class assisted. The poorest labourer could help
to set up an arch of triumph, or to bring sedge to a bonfire. Even the
ruined Huguenots of France could contribute the aid of their ingenuity.
One art which they had carried with them into banishment was the art of
making fireworks; and they now, in honour of the victorious champion of
their faith, lighted up the canals of Amsterdam with showers of splendid
constellations. [3]
To superficial observers it might well seem that William was, at this
time, one of the most enviable of human beings. He was in truth one of
the most anxious and unhappy. He well knew that the difficulties of his
task were only beginning. Already that dawn which had lately been so
bright was overcast; and many signs portended a dark and stormy day.
It was observed that two important classes took little or no part in
the festivities by which, all over England, the inauguration of the
new government was celebrated. Very seldom could either a priest or
a soldier be seen in the assemblages which gathered round the market
crosses where the King and Queen were proclaimed. The professional pride
both of the clergy and of the army had been deeply wounded. The doctrine
of nonresistance had been dear to the Anglican divines. It was their
distinguishing badge. It was their favourite theme. If we are to judge
by that portion of their oratory which has come down to us, they had
preached about the duty of passive obedience at least as often and as
zealously as about the Trinity or the Atonement. [4] Their attachment to
their political creed had indeed been severely tried, and had, during
a short time, wavered. But with the tyranny of James the bitter feeling
which that tyranny had excited among them had passed away. The parson
of a parish was naturally unwilling to join in what was really a triumph
over those principles which, during twenty-eight years, his flock had
heard him proclaim on every anniversary of the Martyrdom and on every
anniversary of the Restoration.
The soldiers, too, were discontented. They hated Popery indeed; and they
had not loved the banished King. But they keenly felt that, in the short
campaign which had decided the fate of their country, theirs had been an
inglorious part. Forty fine regiments, a regular army such as had
never before marched to battle under the royal standard of England,
had retreated precipitately before an invader, and had then, without a
struggle, submitted to him. That great force had been absolutely of no
account in the late change, had done nothing towards keeping William
out, and had done nothing towards bringing him in. The clowns, who,
armed with pitchforks and mounted on carthorses, had straggled in
the train of Lovelace or Delamere, had borne a greater part in the
Revolution than those splendid household troops, whose plumed hats,
embroidered coats, and curvetting chargers the Londoners had so often
seen with admiration in Hyde Park. The mortification of the army was
increased by the taunts of the foreigners, taunts which neither orders
nor punishments could entirely restrain. [5] At several places the anger
which a brave and highspirited body of men might, in such circumstances,
be expected to feel, showed itself in an alarming manner. A battalion
which lay at Cirencester put out the bonfires, huzzaed for King James,
and drank confusion to his daughter and his nephew. The garrison of
Plymouth disturbed the rejoicings of the County of Cornwall: blows were
exchanged, and a man was killed in the fray. [6]
The ill humour of the clergy and of the army could not but be noticed by
the most heedless; for the clergy and the army were distinguished from
other classes by obvious peculiarities of garb. "Black coats and red
coats," said a vehement Whig in the House of Commons, "are the curses
of the nation." [7] But the discontent was not confined to the black coats
and the red coats. The enthusiasm with which men of all classes had
welcomed William to London at Christmas had greatly abated before the
close of February. The new king had, at the very moment at which
his fame and fortune reached the highest point, predicted the coming
reaction. That reaction might, indeed, have been predicted by a less
sagacious observer of human affairs. For it is to be chiefly ascribed
to a law as certain as the laws which regulate the succession of the
seasons and the course of the trade winds. It is the nature of man to
overrate present evil, and to underrate present good; to long for what
he has not, and to be dissatisfied with what he has. This propensity, as
it appears in individuals, has often been noticed both by laughing
and by weeping philosophers. It was a favourite theme of Horace and
of Pascal, of Voltaire and of Johnson. To its influence on the fate
of great communities may be ascribed most of the revolutions and
counterrevolutions recorded in history. A hundred generations have
elapsed since the first great national emancipation, of which an account
has come down to us. We read in the most ancient of books that a
people bowed to the dust under a cruel yoke, scourged to toil by hard
taskmasters, not supplied with straw, yet compelled to furnish the daily
tale of bricks, became sick of life, and raised such a cry of misery as
pierced the heavens. The slaves were wonderfully set free: at the moment
of their liberation they raised a song of gratitude and triumph: but, in
a few hours, they began to regret their slavery, and to murmur against
the leader who had decoyed them away from the savoury fare of the house
of bondage to the dreary waste which still separated them from the land
flowing with milk and honey. Since that time the history of every great
deliverer has been the history of Moses retold. Down to the present
hour rejoicings like those on the shore of the Red Sea have ever been
speedily followed by murmurings like those at the Waters of Strife. [8]
The most just and salutary revolution must produce much suffering. The
most just and salutary revolution cannot produce all the good that had
been expected from it by men of uninstructed minds and sanguine tempers.
Even the wisest cannot, while it is still recent, weigh quite fairly the
evils which it has caused against the evils which it has removed. For
the evils which it has caused are felt; and the evils which it has
removed are felt no longer.
Thus it was now in England. The public was, as it always is during
the cold fits which follow its hot fits, sullen, hard to please,
dissatisfied with itself, dissatisfied with those who had lately been
its favourites. The truce between the two great parties was at an end.
Separated by the memory of all that had been done and suffered during a
conflict of half a century, they had been, during a few months, united
by a common danger. But the danger was over: the union was dissolved;
and the old animosity broke forth again in all its strength.
James had during the last year of his reign, been even more hated by
the Tories than by the Whigs; and not without cause for the Whigs he was
only an enemy; and to the Tories he had been a faithless and thankless
friend. But the old royalist feeling, which had seemed to be extinct in
the time of his lawless domination, had been partially revived by his
misfortunes. Many lords and gentlemen, who had, in December, taken arms
for the Prince of Orange and a Free Parliament, muttered, two months
later, that they had been drawn in; that they had trusted too much
to His Highness's Declaration; that they had given him credit for a
disinterestedness which, it now appeared, was not in his nature. They
had meant to put on King James, for his own good, some gentle force, to
punish the Jesuits and renegades who had misled him, to obtain from
him some guarantee for the safety of the civil and ecclesiastical
institutions of the realm, but not to uncrown and banish him. For his
maladministration, gross as it had been, excuses were found. Was it
strange that, driven from his native land, while still a boy, by rebels
who were a disgrace to the Protestant name, and forced to pass his
youth in countries where the Roman Catholic religion was established,
he should have been captivated by that most attractive of all
superstitions? Was it strange that, persecuted and calumniated as he
had been by an implacable faction, his disposition should have become
sterner and more severe than it had once been thought, and that, when
those who had tried to blast his honour and to rob him of his birthright
were at length in his power, he should not have sufficiently tempered
justice with mercy? As to the worst charge which had been brought
against him, the charge of trying to cheat his daughters out of their
inheritance by fathering a supposititious child, on what grounds did it
rest? Merely on slight circumstances, such as might well be imputed to
accident, or to that imprudence which was but too much in harmony with
his character. Did ever the most stupid country justice put a boy in
the stocks without requiring stronger evidence than that on which the
English people had pronounced their King guilty of the basest and most
odious of all frauds? Some great faults he had doubtless committed,
nothing could be more just or constitutional than that for those faults
his advisers and tools should be called to a severe reckoning; nor did
any of those advisers and tools more richly deserve punishment than the
Roundhead sectaries whose adulation had encouraged him to persist in the
fatal exercise of the dispensing power. It was a fundamental law of the
land that the King could do no wrong, and that, if wrong were done by
his authority, his counsellors and agents were responsible. That great
rule, essential to our polity, was now inverted. The sycophants, who
were legally punishable, enjoyed impunity: the King, who was not legally
punishable, was punished with merciless severity. Was it possible for
the Cavaliers of England, the sons of the warriors who had fought under
Rupert, not to feel bitter sorrow and indignation when they reflected
on the fate of their rightful liege lord, the heir of a long line of
princes, lately enthroned in splendour at Whitehall, now an exile, a
suppliant, a mendicant? His calamities had been greater than even those
of the Blessed Martyr from whom he sprang. The father had been slain by
avowed and mortal foes: the ruin of the son had been the work of his
own children. Surely the punishment, even if deserved, should have been
inflicted by other hands. And was it altogether deserved? Had not the
unhappy man been rather weak and rash than wicked? Had he not some of
the qualities of an excellent prince? His abilities were certainly not
of a high order: but he was diligent: he was thrifty: he had fought
bravely: he had been his own minister for maritime affairs, and had, in
that capacity, acquitted himself respectably: he had, till his spiritual
guides obtained a fatal ascendency over his mind, been regarded as a man
of strict justice; and, to the last, when he was not misled by them, he
generally spoke truth and dealt fairly. With so many virtues he might,
if he had been a Protestant, nay, if he had been a moderate Roman
Catholic, have had a prosperous and glorious reign. Perhaps it might not
be too late for him to retrieve his errors. It was difficult to believe
that he could be so dull and perverse as not to have profited by the
terrible discipline which he had recently undergone; and, if that
discipline had produced the effects which might reasonably be expected
from it, England might still enjoy, under her legitimate ruler, a larger
measure of happiness and tranquillity than she could expect from the
administration of the best and ablest usurper.
We should do great injustice to those who held this language, if we
supposed that they had, as a body, ceased to regard Popery and despotism
with abhorrence. Some zealots might indeed be found who could not bear
the thought of imposing conditions on their King, and who were ready
to recall him without the smallest assurance that the Declaration of
Indulgence should not be instantly republished, that the High Commission
should not be instantly revived, that Petre should not be again seated
at the Council Board, and that the fellows of Magdalene should not again
be ejected. But the number of these men was small. On the other hand,
the number of those Royalists, who, if James would have acknowledged
his mistakes and promised to observe the laws, were ready to rally
round him, was very large. It is a remarkable fact that two able and
experienced statesmen, who had borne a chief part in the Revolution,
frankly acknowledged, a few days after the Revolution had been
accomplished, their apprehension that a Restoration was close at hand.
"If King James were a Protestant," said Halifax to Reresby, "we could
not keep him out four months." "If King James," said Danby to the
same person about the same time, "would but give the country some
satisfaction about religion, which he might easily do, it would be very
hard to make head against him." [9] Happily for England, James was, as
usual, his own worst enemy. No word indicating that he took blame
to himself on account of the past, or that he intended to govern
constitutionally for the future, could be extracted from him. Every
letter, every rumour, that found its way from Saint Germains to England
made men of sense fear that, if, in his present temper, he should be
restored to power, the second tyranny would be worse than the first.
Thus the Tories, as a body, were forced to admit, very unwillingly,
that there was, at that moment, no choice but between William and public
ruin. They therefore, without altogether relinquishing the hope that he
who was King by right might at some future time be disposed to listen to
reason, and without feeling any thing like loyalty towards him who was
King in possession, discontentedly endured the new government.
It may be doubted whether that government was not, during the first
months of its existence, in more danger from the affection of the Whigs
than from the disaffection of the Tories. Enmity can hardly be more
annoying than querulous, jealous, exacting fondness; and such was the
fondness which the Whigs felt for the Sovereign of their choice. They
were loud in his praise. They were ready to support him with purse and
sword against foreign and domestic foes. But their attachment to him was
of a peculiar kind. Loyalty such as had animated the gallant gentlemen
who fought for Charles the First, loyalty such as had rescued Charles
the Second from the fearful dangers and difficulties caused by twenty
years of maladministration, was not a sentiment to which the doctrines
of Milton and Sidney were favourable; nor was it a sentiment which a
prince, just raised to power by a rebellion, could hope to inspire. The
Whig theory of government is that kings exist for the people, and not
the people for the kings; that the right of a king is divine in no
other sense than that in which the right of a member of parliament, of
a judge, of a juryman, of a mayor, of a headborough, is divine; that,
while the chief magistrate governs according to law, he ought to be
obeyed and reverenced; that, when he violates the law, he ought to be
withstood; and that, when he violates the law grossly, systematically
and pertinaciously, he ought to be deposed. On the truth of these
principles depended the justice of William's title to the throne. It is
obvious that the relation between subjects who held these principles,
and a ruler whose accession had been the triumph of these principles,
must have been altogether different from the relation which had
subsisted between the Stuarts and the Cavaliers. The Whigs loved William
indeed: but they loved him not as a King, but as a party leader; and it
was not difficult to foresee that their enthusiasm would cool fast if he
should refuse to be the mere leader of their party, and should attempt
to be King of the whole nation. What they expected from him in return
for their devotion to his cause was that he should be one of themselves,
a stanch and ardent Whig; that he should show favour to none but Whigs;
that he should make all the old grudges of the Whigs his own; and there
was but too much reason to apprehend that, if he disappointed this
expectation, the only section of the community which was zealous in his
cause would be estranged from him. [10]
Such were the difficulties by which, at the moment of his elevation, he
found himself beset. Where there was a good path he had seldom failed to
choose it. But now he had only a choice among paths every one of which
seemed likely to lead to destruction. From one faction he could hope for
no cordial support. The cordial support of the other faction he could
retain only by becoming himself the most factious man in his kingdom, a
Shaftesbury on the throne. If he persecuted the Tories, their sulkiness
would infallibly be turned into fury. If he showed favour to the Tories,
it was by no means certain that he would gain their goodwill; and it was
but too probable that he might lose his hold on the hearts of the Whigs.
Something however he must do: something he must risk: a Privy Council
must be sworn in: all the great offices, political and judicial, must be
filled. It was impossible to make an arrangement that would please every
body, and difficult to make an arrangement that would please any body;
but an arrangement must be made.
What is now called a ministry he did not think of forming. Indeed what
is now called a ministry was never known in England till he had been
some years on the throne. Under the Plantagenets, the Tudors, and the
Stuarts, there had been ministers; but there had been no ministry. The
servants of the Crown were not, as now, bound in frankpledge for
each other. They were not expected to be of the same opinion even on
questions of the gravest importance. Often they were politically and
personally hostile to each other, and made no secret of their hostility.
It was not yet felt to be inconvenient or unseemly that they should
accuse each other of high crimes, and demand each other's heads. No man
had been more active in the impeachment of the Lord Chancellor Clarendon
than Coventry, who was a Commissioner of the Treasury. No man had
been more active in the impeachment of the Lord Treasurer Danby
than Winnington, who was Solicitor General. Among the members of the
Government there was only one point of union, their common head,
the Sovereign. The nation considered him as the proper chief of the
administration, and blamed him severely if he delegated his high
functions to any subject. Clarendon has told us that nothing was so
hateful to the Englishmen of his time as a Prime Minister. They would
rather, he said, be subject to an usurper like Oliver, who was first
magistrate in fact as well as in name, than to a legitimate King who
referred them to a Grand Vizier. One of the chief accusations which the
country party had brought against Charles the Second was that he was
too indolent and too fond of pleasure to examine with care the balance
sheets of public accountants and the inventories of military stores.
James, when he came to the crown, had determined to appoint no Lord
High Admiral or Board of Admiralty, and to keep the entire direction of
maritime affairs in his own hands; and this arrangement, which would now
be thought by men of all parties unconstitutional and pernicious in the
highest degree, was then generally applauded even by people who were not
inclined to see his conduct in a favourable light. How completely the
relation in which the King stood to his Parliament and to his ministers
had been altered by the Revolution was not at first understood even by
the most enlightened statesmen. It was universally supposed that
the government would, as in time past, be conducted by functionaries
independent of each other, and that William would exercise a general
superintendence over them all. It was also fully expected that a prince
of William's capacity and experience would transact much important
business without having recourse to any adviser.
There were therefore no complaints when it was understood that he had
reserved to himself the direction of foreign affairs. This was indeed
scarcely matter of choice: for, with the single exception of Sir William
Temple, whom nothing would induce to quit his retreat for public life,
there was no Englishman who had proved himself capable of conducting an
important negotiation with foreign powers to a successful and honourable
issue. Many years had elapsed since England had interfered with weight
and dignity in the affairs of the great commonwealth of nations.
The attention of the ablest English politicians had long been almost
exclusively occupied by disputes concerning the civil and ecclesiastical
constitution of their own country. The contests about the Popish Plot
and the Exclusion Bill, the Habeas Corpus Act and the Test Act, had
produced an abundance, it might almost be said a glut, of those talents
which raise men to eminence in societies torn by internal factions. All
the Continent could not show such skilful and wary leaders of parties,
such dexterous parliamentary tacticians, such ready and eloquent
debaters, as were assembled at Westminister. But a very different
training was necessary to form a great minister for foreign affairs; and
the Revolution had on a sudden placed England in a situation in which
the services of a great minister for foreign affairs were indispensable
to her.
William was admirably qualified to supply that in which the most
accomplished statesmen of his kingdom were deficient. He had long been
preeminently distinguished as a negotiator. He was the author and the
soul of the European coalition against the French ascendency. The clue,
without which it was perilous to enter the vast and intricate maze
of Continental politics, was in his hands. His English counsellors,
therefore, however able and active, seldom, during his reign, ventured
to meddle with that part of the public business which he had taken as
his peculiar province. [11]
The internal government of England could be carried on only by the
advice and agency of English ministers. Those ministers William selected
in such a manner as showed that he was determined not to proscribe any
set of men who were willing to support his throne. On the day after
the crown had been presented to him in the Banqueting House, the Privy
Council was sworn in. Most of the Councillors were Whigs; but the names
of several eminent Tories appeared in the list. [12] The four highest
offices in the state were assigned to four noblemen, the representatives
of four classes of politicians.
In practical ability and official experience Danby had no superior among
his contemporaries. To the gratitude of the new Sovereigns he had a
strong claim; for it was by his dexterity that their marriage had been
brought about in spite of difficulties which had seemed insuperable. The
enmity which he had always borne to France was a scarcely less powerful
recommendation. He had signed the invitation of the thirtieth of June,
had excited and directed the northern insurrection, and had, in the
Convention, exerted all his influence and eloquence in opposition to
the scheme of Regency. Yet the Whigs regarded him with unconquerable
distrust and aversion. They could not forget that he had, in evil days,
been the first minister of the state, the head of the Cavaliers, the
champion of prerogative, the persecutor of dissenters. Even in becoming
a rebel, he had not ceased to be a Tory. If he had drawn the sword
against the Crown, he had drawn it only in defence of the Church. If he
had, in the Convention, done good by opposing the scheme of Regency, he
had done harm by obstinately maintaining that the throne was not vacant,
and that the Estates had no right to determine who should fill it. The
Whigs were therefore of opinion that he ought to think himself
amply rewarded for his recent merits by being suffered to escape the
punishment of those offences for which he had been impeached ten years
before. He, on the other hand, estimated his own abilities and services,
which were doubtless considerable, at their full value, and thought
himself entitled to the great place of Lord High Treasurer, which he had
formerly held. But he was disappointed. William, on principle, thought
it desirable to divide the power and patronage of the Treasury among
several Commissioners. He was the first English King who never, from the
beginning to the end of his reign, trusted the white staff in the hands
of a single subject. Danby was offered his choice between the Presidency
of the Council and a Secretaryship of State. He sullenly accepted the
Presidency, and, while the Whigs murmured at seeing him placed so high,
hardly attempted to conceal his anger at not having been placed higher.
[13]
Halifax, the most illustrious man of that small party which boasted that
it kept the balance even between Whigs and Tories, took charge of the
Privy Seal, and continued to be Speaker of the House of Lords. [14] He
had been foremost in strictly legal opposition to the late Government,
and had spoken and written with great ability against the dispensing
power: but he had refused to know any thing about the design of
invasion: he had laboured, even when the Dutch were in full march
towards London, to effect a reconciliation; and he had never deserted
James till James had deserted the throne. But, from the moment of that
shameful flight, the sagacious Trimmer, convinced that compromise was
thenceforth impossible, had taken a decided part. He had distinguished
himself preeminently in the Convention: nor was it without a peculiar
propriety that he had been appointed to the honourable office of
tendering the crown, in the name of all the Estates of England, to the
Prince and Princess of Orange; for our Revolution, as far as it can
be said to bear the character of any single mind, assuredly bears the
character of the large yet cautious mind of Halifax. The Whigs, however,
were not in a temper to accept a recent service as an atonement for an
old offence; and the offence of Halifax had been grave indeed. He had
long before been conspicuous in their front rank during a hard fight
for liberty. When they were at length victorious, when it seemed that
Whitehall was at their mercy, when they had a near prospect of dominion
and revenge, he had changed sides; and fortune had changed sides with
him. In the great debate on the Exclusion Bill, his eloquence had struck
them dumb, and had put new life into the inert and desponding party of
the Court. It was true that, though he had left them in the day of
their insolent prosperity, he had returned to them in the day of their
distress. But, now that their distress was over, they forgot that he had
returned to them, and remembered only that he had left them. [15]
The vexation with which they saw Danby presiding in the Council, and
Halifax bearing the Privy Seal, was not diminished by the news that
Nottingham was appointed Secretary of State. Some of those zealous
churchmen who had never ceased to profess the doctrine of nonresistance,
who thought the Revolution unjustifiable, who had voted for a Regency,
and who had to the last maintained that the English throne could never
be one moment vacant, yet conceived it to be their duty to submit to the
decision of the Convention. They had not, they said, rebelled against
James. They had not selected William. But, now that they saw on the
throne a Sovereign whom they never would have placed there, they were
of opinion that no law, divine or human, bound them to carry the contest
further. They thought that they found, both in the Bible and in the
Statute Book, directions which could not be misunderstood. The Bible
enjoins obedience to the powers that be. The Statute Book contains an
act providing that no subject shall be deemed a wrongdoer for adhering
to the King in possession. On these grounds many, who had not concurred
in setting up the new government, believed that they might give it
their support without offence to God or man. One of the most eminent
politicians of this school was Nottingham. At his instance the
Convention had, before the throne was filled, made such changes in the
oath of allegiance as enabled him and those who agreed with him to take
that oath without scruple. "My principles," he said, "do not permit me
to bear any part in making a King. But when a King has been made, my
principles bind me to pay him an obedience more strict than he can
expect from those who have made him." He now, to the surprise of some
of those who most esteemed him, consented to sit in the council, and
to accept the seals of Secretary. William doubtless hoped that this
appointment would be considered by the clergy and the Tory country
gentlemen as a sufficient guarantee that no evil was meditated against
the Church. Even Burnet, who at a later period felt a strong antipathy
to Nottingham, owned, in some memoirs written soon after the Revolution,
that the King had judged well, and that the influence of the Tory
Secretary, honestly exerted in support of the new Sovereigns, had saved
England from great calamities. [16]
The other Secretary was Shrewsbury. [17] No man so young had within
living memory occupied so high a post in the government. He had but just
completed his twenty-eighth year. Nobody, however, except the solemn
formalists at the Spanish embassy, thought his youth an objection to his
promotion. [18] He had already secured for himself a place in history
by the conspicuous part which he had taken in the deliverance of his
country. His talents, his accomplishments, his graceful manners, his
bland temper, made him generally popular. By the Whigs especially he
was almost adored. None suspected that, with many great and many amiable
qualities, he had such faults both of head and of heart as would
make the rest of a life which had opened under the fairest auspices
burdensome to himself and almost useless to his country.
The naval administration and the financial administration were confided
to Boards. Herbert was First Commissioner of the Admiralty. He had in
the late reign given up wealth and dignities when he found that he could
not retain them with honour and with a good conscience. He had carried
the memorable invitation to the Hague. He had commanded the Dutch fleet
during the voyage from Helvoetsluys to Torbay. His character for courage
and professional skill stood high. That he had had his follies and vices
was well known. But his recent conduct in the time of severe trial had
atoned for all, and seemed to warrant the hope that his future career
would be glorious. Among the commissioners who sate with him at the
Admiralty were two distinguished members of the House of Commons,
William Sacheverell, a veteran Whig, who had great authority in his
party, and Sir John Lowther, an honest and very moderate Tory, who in
fortune and parliamentary interest was among the first of the English
gentry. [19]
Mordaunt, one of the most vehement of the Whigs, was placed at the head
of the Treasury; why, it is difficult to say. His romantic courage, his
flighty wit, his eccentric invention, his love of desperate risks and
startling effects, were not qualities likely to be of much use to him in
financial calculations and negotiations. Delamere, a more vehement Whig,
if possible, than Mordaunt, sate second at the board, and was Chancellor
of the Exchequer. Two Whig members of the House of Commons were in the
Commission, Sir Henry Capel, brother of that Earl of Essex who died by
his own hand in the Tower, and Richard Hampden, son of the great leader
of the Long Parliament. But the Commissioner on whom the chief weight of
business lay was Godolphin. This man, taciturn, clearminded, laborious,
inoffensive, zealous for no government and useful to every government,
had gradually become an almost indispensable part of the machinery of
the state. Though a churchman, he had prospered in a Court governed by
Jesuits. Though he had voted for a Regency, he was the real head of a
treasury filled with Whigs. His abilities and knowledge, which had in
the late reign supplied the deficiencies of Bellasyse and Dover, were
now needed to supply the deficiencies of Mordaunt and Delamere. [20]
There were some difficulties in disposing of the Great Seal. The King
at first wished to confide it to Nottingham, whose father had borne it
during several years with high reputation. [21] Nottingham, however,
declined the trust; and it was offered to Halifax, but was again
declined. Both these Lords doubtless felt that it was a trust which they
could not discharge with honour to themselves or with advantage to
the public. In old times, indeed, the Seal had been generally held by
persons who were not lawyers. Even in the seventeenth century it had
been confided to two eminent men, who had never studied at any Inn
of Court. Dean Williams had been Lord Keeper to James the First.
Shaftesbury had been Lord Chancellor to Charles the Second. But such
appointments could no longer be made without serious inconvenience.
Equity had been gradually shaping itself into a refined science, which
no human faculties could master without long and intense application.
Even Shaftesbury, vigorous as was his intellect, had painfully felt his
want of technical knowledge; [22] and, during the fifteen years which had
elapsed since Shaftesbury had resigned the Seal, technical knowledge
had constantly been becoming more and more necessary to his successors.
Neither Nottingham therefore, though he had a stock of legal learning
such as is rarely found in any person who has not received a legal
education, nor Halifax, though, in the judicial sittings of the House
of Lords, the quickness of his apprehension and the subtlety of his
reasoning had often astonished the bar, ventured to accept the highest
office which an English layman can fill. After some delay the Seal was
confided to a commission of eminent lawyers, with Maynard at their head.
[23]
The choice of judges did honour to the new government. Every Privy
Councillor was directed to bring a list. The lists were compared; and
twelve men of conspicuous merit were selected. [24] The professional
attainments and Whig principles of Pollexfen gave him pretensions to
the highest place. But it was remembered that he had held briefs for the
Crown, in the Western counties, at the assizes which followed the battle
of Sedgemoor. It seems indeed from the reports of the trials that he did
as little as he could do if he held the briefs at all, and that he
left to the Judges the business of browbeating witnesses and prisoners.
Nevertheless his name was inseparably associated in the public mind with
the Bloody Circuit. He, therefore, could not with propriety be put at
the head of the first criminal court in the realm. [25] After acting
during a few weeks as Attorney General, he was made Chief Justice of the
Common Pleas. Sir John Holt, a young man, but distinguished by learning,
integrity, and courage, became Chief Justice of the King's Bench. Sir
Robert Atkyns, an eminent lawyer, who had passed some years in rural
retirement, but whose reputation was still great in Westminster Hall,
was appointed Chief Baron. Powell, who had been disgraced on account
of his honest declaration in favour of the Bishops, again took his seat
among the judges. Treby succeeded Pollexfen as Attorney General; and
Somers was made Solicitor. [26]
Two of the chief places in the Royal household were filled by two
English noblemen eminently qualified to adorn a court. The high spirited
and accomplished Devonshire was named Lord Steward. No man had done more
or risked more for England during the crisis of her fate. In retrieving
her liberties he had retrieved also the fortunes of his own house. His
bond for thirty thousand pounds was found among the papers which James
had left at Whitehall, and was cancelled by William. [27]
Dorset became Lord Chamberlain, and employed the influence and patronage
annexed to his functions, as he had long employed his private means, in
encouraging genius and in alleviating misfortune. One of the first acts
which he was under the necessity of performing must have been painful to
a man of so generous a nature, and of so keen a relish for whatever
was excellent in arts and letters. Dryden could no longer remain Poet
Laureate. The public would not have borne to see any Papist among the
servants of their Majesties; and Dryden was not only a Papist, but
an apostate. He had moreover aggravated the guilt of his apostasy by
calumniating and ridiculing the Church which he had deserted. He had,
it was facetiously said, treated her as the Pagan persecutors of old
treated her children. He had dressed her up in the skin of a wild beast,
and then baited her for the public amusement. [28] He was removed; but
he received from the private bounty of the magnificent Chamberlain
a pension equal to the salary which had been withdrawn. The deposed
Laureate, however, as poor of spirit as rich in intellectual gifts,
continued to complain piteously, year after year, of the losses which he
had not suffered, till at length his wailings drew forth expressions
of well merited contempt from brave and honest Jacobites, who had
sacrificed every thing to their principles without deigning to utter one
word of deprecation or lamentation. [29]
In the Royal household were placed some of those Dutch nobles who stood
highest in the favour of the King. Bentinck had the great office of
Groom of the Stole, with a salary of five thousand pounds a year.
Zulestein took charge of the robes. The Master of the Horse was
Auverquerque, a gallant soldier, who united the blood of Nassau to the
blood of Horn, and who wore with just pride a costly sword presented to
him by the States General in acknowledgment of the courage with which he
had, on the bloody day of Saint Dennis, saved the life of William.
The place of Vice Chamberlain to the Queen was given to a man who had
just become conspicuous in public life, and whose name will frequently
recur in the history of this reign. John Howe, or, as he was more
commonly called, Jack Howe, had been sent up to the Convention by the
borough of Cirencester. His appearance was that of a man whose body was
worn by the constant workings of a restless and acrid mind. He was tall,
lean, pale, with a haggard eager look, expressive at once of flightiness
and of shrewdness. He had been known, during several years, as a small
poet; and some of the most savage lampoons which were handed about the
coffeehouses were imputed to him. But it was in the House of Commons
that both his parts and his illnature were most signally displayed.
Before he had been a member three weeks, his volubility, his asperity,
and his pertinacity had made him conspicuous. Quickness, energy, and
audacity, united, soon raised him to the rank of a privileged man. His
enemies, and he had many enemies, said that he consulted his personal
safety even in his most petulant moods, and that he treated soldiers
with a civility which he never showed to ladies or to Bishops. But no
man had in larger measure that evil courage which braves and even
courts disgust and hatred. No decencies restrained him: his spite was
implacable: his skill in finding out the vulnerable parts of strong
minds was consummate. All his great contemporaries felt his sting in
their turns. Once it inflicted a wound which deranged even the stern
composure of William, and constrained him to utter a wish that he were a
private gentleman, and could invite Mr. Howe to a short interview
behind Montague House. As yet, however, Howe was reckoned among the
most strenuous supporters of the new government, and directed all his
sarcasms and invectives against the malcontents. [30]
The subordinate places in every public office were divided between the
two parties: but the Whigs had the larger share. Some persons, indeed,
who did little honour to the Whig name, were largely recompensed for
services which no good man would have performed. Wildman was made
Postmaster General. A lucrative sinecure in the Excise was bestowed on
Ferguson. The duties of the Solicitor of the Treasury were both very
important and very invidious. It was the business of that officer to
conduct political prosecutions, to collect the evidence, to instruct the
counsel for the Crown, to see that the prisoners were not liberated on
insufficient bail, to see that the juries were not composed of persons
hostile to the government. In the days of Charles and James, the
Solicitors of the Treasury had been with too much reason accused of
employing all the vilest artifices of chicanery against men obnoxious
to the Court. The new government ought to have made a choice which was
above all suspicion. Unfortunately Mordaunt and Delamere pitched upon
Aaron Smith, an acrimonious and unprincipled politician, who had been
the legal adviser of Titus Oates in the days of the Popish Plot, and who
had been deeply implicated in the Rye House Plot. Richard Hampden, a
man of decided opinions but of moderate temper, objected to this
appointment. His objections however were overruled. The Jacobites, who
hated Smith and had reason to hate him, affirmed that he had obtained
his place by bullying the Lords of the Treasury, and particularly by
threatening that, if his just claims were disregarded, he would be the
death of Hampden. [31]
Some weeks elapsed before all the arrangements which have been mentioned
were publicly announced: and meanwhile many important events had taken
place. As soon as the new Privy Councillors had been sworn in, it was
necessary to submit to them a grave and pressing question. Could the
Convention now assembled be turned into a Parliament? The Whigs, who had
a decided majority in the Lower House, were all for the affirmative.
The Tories, who knew that, within the last month, the public feeling had
undergone a considerable change, and who hoped that a general election
would add to their strength, were for the negative. They maintained
that to the existence of a Parliament royal writs were indispensably
necessary. The Convention had not been summoned by such writs: the
original defect could not now be supplied: the Houses were therefore
mere clubs of private men, and ought instantly to disperse.
It was answered that the royal writ was mere matter of form, and that to
expose the substance of our laws and liberties to serious hazard for the
sake of a form would be the most senseless superstition. Wherever the
Sovereign, the Peers spiritual and temporal, and the Representatives
freely chosen by the constituent bodies of the realm were met together,
there was the essence of a Parliament. Such a Parliament was now
in being; and what could be more absurd than to dissolve it at a
conjuncture when every hour was precious, when numerous important
subjects required immediate legislation, and when dangers, only to be
averted by the combined efforts of King, Lords, and Commons, menaced
the State? A Jacobite indeed might consistently refuse to recognise the
Convention as a Parliament. For he held that it had from the beginning
been an unlawful assembly, that all its resolutions were nullities,
and that the Sovereigns whom it had set up were usurpers. But with what
consistency could any man, who maintained that a new Parliament ought to
be immediately called by writs under the great seal of William and Mary,
question the authority which had placed William and Mary on the throne?
Those who held that William was rightful King must necessarily hold that
the body from which he derived his right was itself a rightful Great
Council of the Realm. Those who, though not holding him to be rightful
King, conceived that they might lawfully swear allegiance to him as King
in fact, might surely, on the same principle, acknowledge the Convention
as a Parliament in fact. It was plain that the Convention was the
fountainhead from which the authority of all future Parliaments must be
derived, and that on the validity of the votes of the Convention must
depend the validity of every future statute. And how could the
stream rise higher than the source? Was it not absurd to say that the
Convention was supreme in the state, and yet a nullity; a legislature
for the highest of all purposes, and yet no legislature for the
humblest purposes; competent to declare the throne vacant, to change
the succession, to fix the landmarks of the constitution, and yet not
competent to pass the most trivial Act for the repairing of a pier or
the building of a parish church?
These arguments would have had considerable weight, even if every
precedent had been on the other side. But in truth our history afforded
only one precedent which was at all in point; and that precedent
was decisive in favour of the doctrine that royal writs are not
indispensably necessary to the existence of a Parliament. No royal writ
had summoned the Convention which recalled Charles the Second. Yet
that Convention had, after his Restoration, continued to sit and to
legislate, had settled the revenue, had passed an Act of amnesty, had
abolished the feudal tenures. These proceedings had been sanctioned by
authority of which no party in the state could speak without reverence.
Hale had borne a considerable share in them, and had always maintained
that they were strictly legal. Clarendon, little as he was inclined to
favour any doctrine derogatory to the rights of the Crown, or to the
dignity of that seal of which he was keeper, had declared that, since
God had, at a most critical conjuncture, given the nation a good
Parliament, it would be the height of folly to look for technical flaws
in the instrument by which that Parliament was called together. Would
it be pretended by any Tory that the Convention of 1660 had a more
respectable origin than the Convention of 1689? Was not a letter written
by the first Prince of the Blood, at the request of the whole peerage,
and of hundreds of gentlemen who had represented counties and towns, at
least as good a warrant as a vote of the Rump?
Weaker reasons than these would have satisfied the Whigs who formed
the majority of the Privy Council. The King therefore, on the fifth
day after he had been proclaimed, went with royal state to the House of
Lords, and took his seat on the throne. The Commons were called in; and
he, with many gracious expressions, reminded his hearers of the perilous
situation of the country, and exhorted them to take such steps as might
prevent unnecessary delay in the transaction of public business. His
speech was received by the gentlemen who crowded the bar with the deep
hum by which our ancestors were wont to indicate approbation, and which
was often heard in places more sacred than the Chamber of the Peers.
[32] As soon as he had retired, a Bill declaring the Convention a
Parliament was laid on the table of the Lords, and rapidly passed by
them. In the Commons the debates were warm. The House resolved itself
into a Committee; and so great was the excitement that, when the
authority of the Speaker was withdrawn, it was hardly possible to
preserve order. Sharp personalities were exchanged. The phrase, "hear
him," a phrase which had originally been used only to silence
irregular noises, and to remind members of the duty of attending to the
discussion, had, during some years, been gradually becoming what it
now is; that is to say, a cry indicative, according to the tone, of
admiration, acquiescence, indignation, or derision. On this occasion,
the Whigs vociferated "Hear, hear," so tumultuously that the Tories
complained of unfair usage. Seymour, the leader of the minority,
declared that there could be no freedom of debate while such clamour was
tolerated. Some old Whig members were provoked into reminding him that
the same clamour had occasionally been heard when he presided, and had
not then been repressed. Yet, eager and angry as both sides were, the
speeches on both sides indicated that profound reverence for law and
prescription which has long been characteristic of Englishmen, and
which, though it runs sometimes into pedantry and sometimes into
superstition, is not without its advantages. Even at that momentous
crisis, when the nation was still in the ferment of a revolution, our
public men talked long and seriously about all the circumstances of the
deposition of Edward the Second and of the deposition of Richard
the Second, and anxiously inquired whether the assembly which, with
Archbishop Lanfranc at its head, set aside Robert of Normandy, and put
William Rufus on the throne, did or did not afterwards continue to act
as the legislature of the realm. Much was said about the history
of writs; much about the etymology of the word Parliament. It is
remarkable, that the orator who took the most statesmanlike view of the
subject was old Maynard. In the civil conflicts of fifty eventful years
he had learned that questions affecting the highest interests of the
commonwealth were not to be decided by verbal cavils and by scraps of
Law French and Law Latin; and, being by universal acknowledgment the
most subtle and the most learned of English jurists, he could express
what he felt without the risk of being accused of ignorance and
presumption. He scornfully thrust aside as frivolous and out of place
all that blackletter learning, which some men, far less versed in such
matters than himself, had introduced into the discussion. "We are,"
he said, "at this moment out of the beaten path. If therefore we are
determined to move only in that path, we cannot move at all. A man in
a revolution resolving to do nothing which is not strictly according to
established form resembles a man who has lost himself in the wilderness,
and who stands crying 'Where is the king's highway? I will walk nowhere
but on the king's highway.' In a wilderness a man should take the track
which will carry him home. In a revolution we must have recourse to
the highest law, the safety of the state." Another veteran Roundhead,
Colonel Birch, took the same side, and argued with great force and
keenness from the precedent of 1660. Seymour and his supporters were
beaten in the Committee, and did not venture to divide the House on the
Report. The Bill passed rapidly, and received the royal assent on the
tenth day after the accession of William and Mary. [33]
The law which turned the Convention into a Parliament contained a clause
providing that no person should, after the first of March, sit or vote
in either House without taking the oaths to the new King and Queen. This
enactment produced great agitation throughout society. The adherents of
the exiled dynasty hoped and confidently predicted that the recusants
would be numerous. The minority in both Houses, it was said, would be
true to the cause of hereditary monarchy. There might be here and there
a traitor; but the great body of those who had voted for a Regency would
be firm. Only two Bishops at most would recognise the usurpers. Seymour
would retire from public life rather than abjure his principles. Grafton
had determined to fly to France and to throw himself at the feet of his
uncle. With such rumours as these all the coffeehouses of London were
filled during the latter part of February. So intense was the public
anxiety that, if any man of rank was missed, two days running, at his
usual haunts, it was immediately whispered that he had stolen away to
Saint Germains. [34]
The second of March arrived; and the event quieted the fears of one
party, and confounded the hopes of the other. The Primate indeed and
several of his suffragans stood obstinately aloof: but three Bishops and
seventy-three temporal peers took the oaths. At the next meeting of the
Upper House several more prelates came in. Within a week about a hundred
Lords had qualified themselves to sit. Others, who were prevented by
illness from appearing, sent excuses and professions of attachment
to their Majesties. Grafton refuted all the stories which had been
circulated about him by coming to be sworn on the first day. Two members
of the Ecclesiastical Commission, Mulgrave and Sprat, hastened to make
atonement for their fault by plighting their faith to William. Beaufort,
who had long been considered as the type of a royalist of the old
school, submitted after a very short hesitation. Aylesbury and
Dartmouth, though vehement Jacobites, had as little scruple about taking
the oath of allegiance as they afterwards had about breaking it. [35]
The Hydes took different paths. Rochester complied with the law; but
Clarendon proved refractory. Many thought it strange that the brother
who had adhered to James till James absconded should be less sturdy than
the brother who had been in the Dutch camp. The explanation perhaps
is that Rochester would have sacrificed much more than Clarendon by
refusing to take the oaths. Clarendon's income did not depend on the
pleasure of the Government but Rochester had a pension of four thousand
a year, which he could not hope to retain if he refused to acknowledge
the new Sovereigns. Indeed, he had so many enemies that, during some
months, it seemed doubtful whether he would, on any terms, be suffered
to retain the splendid reward which he had earned by persecuting the
Whigs and by sitting in the High Commission. He was saved from what
would have been a fatal blow to his fortunes by the intercession of
Burnet, who had been deeply injured by him, and who revenged himself as
became a Christian divine. [36]
In the Lower House four hundred members were sworn in on the second
of March; and among them was Seymour. The spirit of the Jacobites was
broken by his defection; and the minority with very few exceptions
followed his example. [37]
Before the day fixed for the taking of the oaths, the Commons had begun
to discuss a momentous question which admitted of no delay. During the
interregnum, William had, as provisional chief of the administration,
collected the taxes and applied them to the public service; nor could
the propriety of this course be questioned by any person who approved
of the Revolution. But the Revolution was now over: the vacancy of the
throne had been supplied: the Houses were sitting: the law was in full
force; and it became necessary immediately to decide to what revenue the
Government was entitled.
Nobody denied that all the lands and hereditaments of the Crown had
passed with the Crown to the new Sovereigns. Nobody denied that all
duties which had been granted to the Crown for a fixed term of years
might be constitutionally exacted till that term should expire. But
large revenues had been settled by Parliament on James for life; and
whether what had been settled on James for life could, while he lived,
be claimed by William and Mary, was a question about which opinions were
divided.
Holt, Treby, Pollexfen, indeed all the eminent Whig lawyers, Somers
excepted, held that these revenues had been granted to the late King, in
his political capacity, but for his natural life, and ought therefore,
as long as he continued to drag on his existence in a strange land,
to be paid to William and Mary. It appears from a very concise and
unconnected report of the debate that Somers dissented from this
doctrine. His opinion was that, if the Act of Parliament which had
imposed the duties in question was to be construed according to the
spirit, the word life must be understood to mean reign, and that
therefore the term for which the grant had been made had expired. This
was surely the sound opinion: for it was plainly irrational to treat the
interest of James in this grant as at once a thing annexed to his
person and a thing annexed to his office; to say in one breath that the
merchants of London and Bristol must pay money because he was naturally
alive, and that his successors must receive that money because he was
politically defunct. The House was decidedly with Somers. The members
generally were bent on effecting a great reform, without which it was
felt that the Declaration of Rights would be but an imperfect guarantee
for public liberty. During the conflict which fifteen successive
Parliaments had maintained against four successive Kings, the chief
weapon of the Commons had been the power of the purse; and never had
the representatives of the people been induced to surrender that weapon
without having speedy cause to repent of their too credulous loyalty.
In that season of tumultuous joy which followed the Restoration, a large
revenue for life had been almost by acclamation granted to Charles the
Second. A few months later there was scarcely a respectable Cavalier in
the kingdom who did not own that the stewards of the nation would have
acted more wisely if they had kept in their hands the means of checking
the abuses which disgraced every department of the government. James
the Second had obtained from his submissive Parliament, without a
dissentient voice, an income sufficient to defray the ordinary expenses
of the state during his life; and, before he had enjoyed that income
half a year, the great majority of those who had dealt thus liberally
with him blamed themselves severely for their liberality. If experience
was to be trusted, a long and painful experience, there could be no
effectual security against maladministration, unless the Sovereign were
under the necessity of recurring frequently to his Great Council for
pecuniary aid. Almost all honest and enlightened men were therefore
agreed in thinking that a part at least of the supplies ought to be
granted only for short terms. And what time could be fitter for the
introduction of this new practice than the year 1689, the commencement
of a new reign, of a new dynasty, of a new era of constitutional
government? The feeling on this subject was so strong and general that
the dissentient minority gave way. No formal resolution was passed; but
the House proceeded to act on the supposition that the grants which had
been made to James for life had been annulled by his abdication. [38]
It was impossible to make a new settlement of the revenue without
inquiry and deliberation. The Exchequer was ordered to furnish such
returns as might enable the House to form estimates of the public
expenditure and income. In the meantime, liberal provision was made
for the immediate exigencies of the state. An extraordinary aid, to be
raised by direct monthly assessment, was voted to the King. An Act was
passed indemnifying all who had, since his landing, collected by his
authority the duties settled on James; and those duties which had
expired were continued for some months.
Along William's whole line of march, from Torbay to London, he had been
importuned by the common people to relieve them from the intolerable
burden of the hearth money. In truth, that tax seems to have united all
the worst evils which can be imputed to any tax. It was unequal, and
unequal in the most pernicious way: for it pressed heavily on the poor,
and lightly on the rich. A peasant, all whose property was not worth
twenty pounds, was charged ten shillings. The Duke of Ormond, or the
Duke of Newcastle, whose estates were worth half a million, paid only
four or five pounds. The collectors were empowered to examine the
interior of every house in the realm, to disturb families at meals,
to force the doors of bedrooms, and, if the sum demanded were not
punctually paid, to sell the trencher on which the barley loaf was
divided among the poor children, and the pillow from under the head
of the lying-in woman. Nor could the Treasury effectually restrain the
chimneyman from using his powers with harshness: for the tax was farmed;
and the government was consequently forced to connive at outrages and
exactions such as have, in every age made the name of publican a proverb
for all that is most hateful.
William had been so much moved by what he had heard of these grievances
that, at one of the earliest sittings of the Privy Council, he
introduced the subject. He sent a message requesting the House of
Commons to consider whether better regulations would effectually prevent
the abuses which had excited so much discontent. He added that he would
willingly consent to the entire abolition of the tax if it should appear
that the tax and the abuses were inseparable. [39] This communication
was received with loud applause. There were indeed some financiers of
the old school who muttered that tenderness for the poor was a fine
thing; but that no part of the revenue of the state came in so exactly
to the day as the hearth money; that the goldsmiths of the City could
not always be induced to lend on the security of the next quarter's
customs or excise, but that on an assignment of hearth money there was
no difficulty in obtaining advances. In the House of Commons, those who
thought thus did not venture to raise their voices in opposition to
the general feeling. But in the Lords there was a conflict of which the
event for a time seemed doubtful. At length the influence of the
Court, strenuously exerted, carried an Act by which the chimney tax was
declared a badge of slavery, and was, with many expressions of gratitude
to the King, abolished for ever. [40]
The Commons granted, with little dispute, and without a division,
six hundred thousand pounds for the purpose of repaying to the United
Provinces the charges of the expedition which had delivered England. The
facility with which this large sum was voted to a shrewd, diligent and
thrifty people, our allies, indeed, politically, but commercially our
most formidable rivals, excited some murmurs out of doors, and
was, during many years, a favourite subject of sarcasm with Tory
pamphleteers. [41] The liberality of the House admits however of an
easy explanation. On the very day on which the subject was under
consideration, alarming news arrived at Westminster, and convinced many,
who would at another time have been disposed to scrutinise severely any
account sent in by the Dutch, that our country could not yet dispense
with the services of the foreign troops.
France had declared war against the States General; and the States
General had consequently demanded from the King of England those
succours which he was bound by the treaty of Nimeguen to furnish. [42]
He had ordered some battalions to march to Harwich, that they might be
in readiness to cross to the Continent. The old soldiers of James
were generally in a very bad temper; and this order did not produce a
soothing effect. The discontent was greatest in the regiment which now
ranks as first of the line. Though borne on the English establishment,
that regiment, from the time when it first fought under the great
Gustavus, had been almost exclusively composed of Scotchmen; and
Scotchmen have never, in any region to which their adventurous and
aspiring temper has led them, failed to note and to resent every slight
offered to Scotland. Officers and men muttered that a vote of a foreign
assembly was nothing to them. If they could be absolved from their
allegiance to King James the Seventh, it must be by the Estates at
Edinburgh, and not by the Convention at Westminster. Their ill humour
increased when they heard that Schomberg had been appointed their
colonel. They ought perhaps to have thought it an honour to be called by
the name of the greatest soldier in Europe. But, brave and skilful as
he was, he was not their countryman: and their regiment, during the
fifty-six years which had elapsed since it gained its first honourable
distinctions in Germany, had never been commanded but by a Hepburn or a
Douglas. While they were in this angry and punctilious mood, they were
ordered to join the forces which were assembling at Harwich. There was
much murmuring; but there was no outbreak till the regiment arrived at
Ipswich. There the signal of revolt was given by two captains who were
zealous for the exiled King. The market place was soon filled with
pikemen and musketeers running to and fro. Gunshots were wildly fired
in all directions. Those officers who attempted to restrain the rioters
were overpowered and disarmed. At length the chiefs of the insurrection
established some order, and marched out of Ipswich at the head of their
adherents. The little army consisted of about eight hundred men. They
had seized four pieces of cannon, and had taken possession of the
military chest, which contained a considerable sum of money. At the
distance of half a mile from the town a halt was called: a general
consultation was held; and the mutineers resolved that they would hasten
back to their native country, and would live and die with their rightful
King. They instantly proceeded northward by forced marches. [43]
When the news reached London the dismay was great. It was rumoured that
alarming symptoms had appeared in other regiments, and particularly
that a body of fusileers which lay at Harwich was likely to imitate the
example set at Ipswich. "If these Scots," said Halifax to Reresby,
"are unsupported, they are lost. But if they have acted in concert with
others, the danger is serious indeed." [44] The truth seems to be that
there was a conspiracy which had ramifications in many parts of the
army, but that the conspirators were awed by the firmness of the
government and of the Parliament. A committee of the Privy Council
was sitting when the tidings of the mutiny arrived in London. William
Harbord, who represented the borough of Launceston, was at the board.
His colleagues entreated him to go down instantly to the House of
Commons, and to relate what had happened. He went, rose in his place,
and told his story. The spirit of the assembly rose to the occasion.
Howe was the first to call for vigorous action. "Address the King," he
said, "to send his Dutch troops after these men. I know not who else can
be trusted." "This is no jesting matter," said old Birch, who had been a
colonel in the service of the Parliament, and had seen the most powerful
and renowned House of Commons that ever sate twice purged and twice
expelled by its own soldiers; "if you let this evil spread, you will
have an army upon you in a few days. Address the King to send horse and
foot instantly, his own men, men whom he can trust, and to put these
people down at once." The men of the long robe caught the flame. "It
is not the learning of my profession that is needed here," said Treby.
"What is now to be done is to meet force with force, and to maintain
in the field what we have done in the senate." "Write to the Sheriffs,"
said Colonel Mildmay, member for Essex. "Raise the militia. There are a
hundred and fifty thousand of them: they are good Englishmen: they will
not fail you." It was resolved that all members of the House who
held commissions in the army should be dispensed from parliamentary
attendance, in order that they might repair instantly to their military
posts. An address was unanimously voted requesting the King to take
effectual steps for the suppression of the rebellion, and to put forth
a proclamation denouncing public vengeance on the rebels. One gentleman
hinted that it might be well to advise his Majesty to offer a pardon
to those who should peaceably submit: but the House wisely rejected the
suggestion. "This is no time," it was well said, "for any thing that
looks like fear." The address was instantly sent up to the Lords.
The Lords concurred in it. Two peers, two knights of shires, and two
burgesses were sent with it to Court. William received them graciously,
and informed them that he had already given the necessary orders. In
fact, several regiments of horse and dragoons had been sent northward
under the command of Ginkell, one of the bravest and ablest officers of
the Dutch army. [45]
Meanwhile the mutineers were hastening across the country which lies
between Cambridge and the Wash. Their road lay through a vast and
desolate fen, saturated with all the moisture of thirteen counties, and
overhung during the greater part of the year by a low grey mist, high
above which rose, visible many miles, the magnificent tower of Ely. In
that dreary region, covered by vast flights of wild fowl, a half savage
population, known by the name of the Breedlings, then led an amphibious
life, sometimes wading, and sometimes rowing, from one islet of firm
ground to another. [46] The roads were amongst the worst in the island,
and, as soon as rumour announced the approach of the rebels, were
studiously made worse by the country people. Bridges were broken down.
Trees were laid across the highways to obstruct the progress of the
cannon. Nevertheless the Scotch veterans not only pushed forward with
great speed, but succeeded in carrying their artillery with them. They
entered Lincolnshire, and were not far from Sleaford, when they learned
that Ginkell with an irresistible force was close on their track.
Victory and escape were equally out of the question. The bravest
warriors could not contend against fourfold odds. The most active
infantry could not outrun horsemen. Yet the leaders, probably despairing
of pardon, urged the men to try the chance of battle. In that region, a
spot almost surrounded by swamps and pools was without difficulty found.
Here the insurgents were drawn up; and the cannon were planted at the
only point which was thought not to be sufficiently protected by natural
defences. Ginkell ordered the attack to be made at a place which was
out of the range of the guns; and his dragoons dashed gallantly into the
water, though it was so deep that their horses were forced to swim. Then
the mutineers lost heart. They beat a parley, surrendered at discretion,
and were brought up to London under a strong guard. Their lives were
forfeit: for they had been guilty, not merely of mutiny, which was
then not a legal crime, but of levying war against the King. William,
however, with politic clemency, abstained from shedding the blood even
of the most culpable. A few of the ringleaders were brought to trial
at the next Bury assizes, and were convicted of high treason; but their
lives were spared. The rest were merely ordered to return to their duty.
The regiment, lately so refractory, went submissively to the Continent,
and there, through many hard campaigns, distinguished itself by
fidelity, by discipline, and by valour. [47]
This event facilitated an important change in our polity, a change
which, it is true, could not have been long delayed, but which would not
have been easily accomplished except at a moment of extreme danger. The
time had at length arrived at which it was necessary to make a legal
distinction between the soldier and the citizen. Under the Plantagenets
and the Tudors there had been no standing army. The standing army
which had existed under the last kings of the House of Stuart had been
regarded by every party in the state with strong and not unreasonable
aversion. The common law gave the Sovereign no power to control his
troops. The Parliament, regarding them as mere tools of tyranny, had not
been disposed to give such power by statute. James indeed had
induced his corrupt and servile judges to put on some obsolete laws a
construction which enabled him to punish desertion capitally. But this
construction was considered by all respectable jurists as unsound,
and, had it been sound, would have been far from effecting all that was
necessary for the purpose of maintaining military discipline. Even James
did not venture to inflict death by sentence of a court martial. The
deserter was treated as an ordinary felon, was tried at the assizes by a
petty jury on a bill found by a grand jury, and was at liberty to
avail himself of any technical flaw which might be discovered in the
indictment.
The Revolution, by altering the relative position of the prince and the
parliament, had altered also the relative position of the army and the
nation. The King and the Commons were now at unity; and both were alike
menaced by the greatest military power which had existed in Europe
since the downfall of the Roman empire. In a few weeks thirty thousand
veterans, accustomed to conquer, and led by able and experienced
captains, might cross from the ports of Normandy and Brittany to our
shores. That such a force would with little difficulty scatter three
times that number of militia, no man well acquainted with war could
doubt. There must then be regular soldiers; and, if there were to be
regular soldiers, it must be indispensable, both to their efficiency,
and to the security of every other class, that they should be kept under
a strict discipline. An ill disciplined army has ever been a more costly
and a more licentious militia, impotent against a foreign enemy, and
formidable only to the country which it is paid to defend. A strong line
of demarcation must therefore be drawn between the soldiers and the
rest of the community. For the sake of public freedom, they must, in the
midst of freedom, be placed under a despotic rule. They must be subject
to a sharper penal code, and to a more stringent code of procedure,
than are administered by the ordinary tribunals. Some acts which in the
citizen are innocent must in the soldier be crimes. Some acts which in
the citizen are punished with fine or imprisonment must in the soldier
be punished with death. The machinery by which courts of law ascertain
the guilt or innocence of an accused citizen is too slow and too
intricate to be applied to an accused soldier. For, of all the maladies
incident to the body politic, military insubordination is that which
requires the most prompt and drastic remedies. If the evil be not
stopped as soon as it appears, it is certain to spread; and it cannot
spread far without danger to the very vitals of the commonwealth. For
the general safety, therefore, a summary jurisdiction of terrible extent
must, in camps, be entrusted to rude tribunals composed of men of the
sword.
But, though it was certain that the country could not at that moment
be secure without professional soldiers, and equally certain that
professional soldiers must be worse than useless unless they were placed
under a rule more arbitrary and severe than that to which other men were
subject, it was not without great misgivings that a House of Commons
could venture to recognise the existence and to make provision for the
government of a standing army. There was scarcely a public man of note
who had not often avowed his conviction that our polity and a standing
army could not exist together. The Whigs had been in the constant habit
of repeating that standing armies had destroyed the free institutions of
the neighbouring nations. The Tories had repeated as constantly that, in
our own island, a standing army had subverted the Church, oppressed the
gentry, and murdered the King. No leader of either party could, without
laying himself open to the charge of gross inconsistency, propose that
such an army should henceforth be one of the permanent establishments
of the realm. The mutiny at Ipswich, and the panic which that mutiny
produced, made it easy to effect what would otherwise have been in the
highest degree difficult. A short bill was brought in which began by
declaring, in explicit terms, that standing armies and courts martial
were unknown to the law of England. It was then enacted that, on account
of the extreme perils impending at that moment over the state, no man
mustered on pay in the service of the crown should, on pain of death,
or of such lighter punishment as a court martial should deem sufficient,
desert his colours or mutiny against his commanding officers. This
statute was to be in force only six months; and many of those who voted
for it probably believed that it would, at the close of that period,
be suffered to expire. The bill passed rapidly and easily. Not a single
division was taken upon it in the House of Commons. A mitigating clause
indeed, which illustrates somewhat curiously the manners of that age,
was added by way of rider after the third reading. This clause provided
that no court martial should pass sentence of death except between the
hours of six in the morning and one in the afternoon. The dinner hour
was then early; and it was but too probable that a gentleman who had
dined would be in a state in which he could not safely be trusted with
the lives of his fellow creatures. With this amendment, the first and
most concise of our many Mutiny Bills was sent up to the Lords, and was,
in a few hours, hurried by them through all its stages and passed by the
King. [48]
Thus was made, without one dissentient voice in Parliament, without one
murmur in the nation, the first step towards a change which had become
necessary to the safety of the state, yet which every party in the state
then regarded with extreme dread and aversion. Six months passed;
and still the public danger continued. The power necessary to the
maintenance of military discipline was a second time entrusted to the
crown for a short term. The trust again expired, and was again renewed.
By slow degrees familiarity reconciled the public mind to the names,
once so odious, of standing army and court martial. It was proved by
experience that, in a well constituted society, professional soldiers
may be terrible to a foreign enemy, and yet submissive to the civil
power. What had been at first tolerated as the exception began to be
considered as the rule. Not a session passed without a Mutiny Bill.
When at length it became evident that a political change of the highest
importance was taking place in such a manner as almost to escape notice,
a clamour was raised by some factious men desirous to weaken the hands
of the government, and by some respectable men who felt an honest but
injudicious reverence for every old constitutional tradition, and who
were unable to understand that what at one stage in the progress of
society is pernicious may at another stage be indispensable. This
clamour however, as years rolled on, became fainter and fainter.
The debate which recurred every spring on the Mutiny Bill came to be
regarded merely as an occasion on which hopeful young orators fresh
from Christchurch were to deliver maiden speeches, setting forth how
the guards of Pisistratus seized the citadel of Athens, and how the
Praetorian cohorts sold the Roman empire to Didius. At length
these declamations became too ridiculous to be repeated. The most
oldfashioned, the most eccentric, politician could hardly, in the reign
of George the Third, contend that there ought to be no regular soldiers,
or that the ordinary law, administered by the ordinary courts, would
effectually maintain discipline among such soldiers. All parties being
agreed as to the general principle, a long succession of Mutiny Bills
passed without any discussion, except when some particular article of
the military code appeared to require amendment. It is perhaps because
the army became thus gradually, and almost imperceptibly, one of the
institutions of England, that it has acted in such perfect harmony with
all her other institutions, has never once, during a hundred and sixty
years, been untrue to the throne or disobedient to the law, has never
once defied the tribunals or overawed the constituent bodies. To this
day, however, the Estates of the Realm continue to set up periodically,
with laudable jealousy, a landmark on the frontier which was traced
at the time of the Revolution. They solemnly reassert every year the
doctrine laid down in the Declaration of Rights; and they then grant
to the Sovereign an extraordinary power to govern a certain number of
soldiers according to certain rules during twelve months more.
In the same week in which the first Mutiny Bill was laid on the table
of the Commons, another temporary law, made necessary by the unsettled
state of the kingdom, was passed. Since the flight of James many persons
who were believed to have been deeply implicated in his unlawful acts,
or to be engaged in plots for his restoration, had been arrested and
confined. During the vacancy of the throne, these men could derive no
benefit from the Habeas Corpus Act. For the machinery by which alone
that Act could be carried into execution had ceased to exist; and,
through the whole of Hilary term, all the courts in Westminster Hall had
remained closed. Now that the ordinary tribunals were about to resume
their functions, it was apprehended that all those prisoners whom it was
not convenient to bring instantly to trial would demand and obtain their
liberty. A bill was therefore brought in which empowered the King to
detain in custody during a few weeks such persons as he should suspect
of evil designs against his government. This bill passed the two Houses
with little or no opposition. [49] But the malecontents out of doors did
not fail to remark that, in the late reign, the Habeas Corpus Act had
not been one day suspended. It was the fashion to call James a tyrant,
and William a deliverer. Yet, before the deliverer had been a month on
the throne, he had deprived Englishmen of a precious right which the
tyrant had respected. [50] This is a kind of reproach which a government
sprung from a popular revolution almost inevitably incurs. From such
a government men naturally think themselves entitled to demand a more
gentle and liberal administration than is expected from old and deeply
rooted power. Yet such a government, having, as it always has, many
active enemies, and not having the strength derived from legitimacy and
prescription, can at first maintain itself only by a vigilance and
a severity of which old and deeply rooted power stands in no need.
Extraordinary and irregular vindications of public liberty are sometimes
necessary: yet, however necessary, they are almost always followed
by some temporary abridgments of that very liberty; and every such
abridgment is a fertile and plausible theme for sarcasm and invective.
Unhappily sarcasm and invective directed against William were but too
likely to find favourable audience. Each of the two great parties had
its own reasons for being dissatisfied with him; and there were some
complaints in which both parties joined. His manners gave almost
universal offence. He was in truth far better qualified to save a nation
than to adorn a court. In the highest parts of statesmanship, he had
no equal among his contemporaries. He had formed plans not inferior in
grandeur and boldness to those of Richelieu, and had carried them into
effect with a tact and wariness worthy of Mazarin. Two countries, the
seats of civil liberty and of the Reformed Faith, had been preserved
by his wisdom and courage from extreme perils. Holland he had delivered
from foreign, and England from domestic foes. Obstacles apparently
insurmountable had been interposed between him and the ends on which
he was intent; and those obstacles his genius had turned into stepping
stones. Under his dexterous management the hereditary enemies of his
house had helped him to mount a throne; and the persecutors of his
religion had helped him to rescue his religion from persecution.
Fleets and armies, collected to withstand him, had, without a struggle,
submitted to his orders. Factions and sects, divided by mortal
antipathies, had recognised him as their common head. Without carnage,
without devastation, he had won a victory compared with which all the
victories of Gustavus and Turenne were insignificant. In a few weeks he
had changed the relative position of all the states in Europe, and
had restored the equilibrium which the preponderance of one power had
destroyed. Foreign nations did ample justice to his great qualities. In
every Continental country where Protestant congregations met, fervent
thanks were offered to God, who, from among the progeny of His servants,
Maurice, the deliverer of Germany, and William, the deliverer of
Holland, had raised up a third deliverer, the wisest and mightiest
of all. At Vienna, at Madrid, nay, at Rome, the valiant and sagacious
heretic was held in honour as the chief of the great confederacy
against the House of Bourbon; and even at Versailles the hatred which he
inspired was largely mingled with admiration.
Here he was less favourably judged. In truth, our ancestors saw him in
the worst of all lights. By the French, the Germans, and the Italians,
he was contemplated at such a distance that only what was great could be
discerned, and that small blemishes were invisible. To the Dutch he was
brought close: but he was himself a Dutchman. In his intercourse with
them he was seen to the best advantage, he was perfectly at his ease
with them; and from among them he had chosen his earliest and dearest
friends. But to the English he appeared in a most unfortunate point of
view. He was at once too near to them and too far from them. He lived
among them, so that the smallest peculiarity of temper or manner could
not escape their notice. Yet he lived apart from them, and was to the
last a foreigner in speech, tastes, and habits.
One of the chief functions of our Sovereigns had long been to preside
over the society of the capital. That function Charles the Second had
performed with immense success. His easy bow, his good stories, his
style of dancing and playing tennis, the sound of his cordial laugh,
were familiar to all London. One day he was seen among the elms of Saint
James's Park chatting with Dryden about poetry. [51] Another day his arm
was on Tom Durfey's shoulder; and his Majesty was taking a second, while
his companion sang "Phillida, Phillida," or "To horse, brave boys,
to Newmarket, to horse." [52] James, with much less vivacity and good
nature, was accessible, and, to people who did not cross him, civil.
But of this sociableness William was entirely destitute. He seldom came
forth from his closet; and, when he appeared in the public rooms, he
stood among the crowd of courtiers and ladies, stern and abstracted,
making no jest and smiling at none. His freezing look, his silence, the
dry and concise answers which he uttered when he could keep silence no
longer, disgusted noblemen and gentlemen who had been accustomed to
be slapped on the back by their royal masters, called Jack or Harry,
congratulated about race cups or rallied about actresses. The women
missed the homage due to their sex. They observed that the King spoke in
a somewhat imperious tone even to the wife to whom he owed so much, and
whom he sincerely loved and esteemed. [53] They were amused and shocked
to see him, when the Princess Anne dined with him, and when the first
green peas of the year were put on the table, devour the whole dish
without offering a spoonful to her Royal Highness; and they pronounced
that this great soldier and politician was no better than a Low Dutch
bear. [54]
One misfortune, which was imputed to him as a crime, was his bad
English. He spoke our language, but not well. His accent was foreign:
his diction was inelegant; and his vocabulary seems to have been no
larger than was necessary for the transaction of business. To the
difficulty which he felt in expressing himself, and to his consciousness
that his pronunciation was bad, must be partly ascribed the taciturnity
and the short answers which gave so much offence. Our literature he was
incapable of enjoying or of understanding. He never once, during his
whole reign, showed himself at the theatre. [55] The poets who wrote
Pindaric verses in his praise complained that their flights of sublimity
were beyond his comprehension. [56] Those who are acquainted with the
panegyrical odes of that age will perhaps be of opinion that he did not
lose much by his ignorance.
It is true that his wife did her best to supply what was wanting, and
that she was excellently qualified to be the head of the Court. She was
English by birth, and English also in her tastes and feelings. Her
face was handsome, her port majestic, her temper sweet and lively, her
manners affable and graceful. Her understanding, though very imperfectly
cultivated, was quick. There was no want of feminine wit and shrewdness
in her conversation; and her letters were so well expressed that they
deserved to be well spelt. She took much pleasure in the lighter kinds
of literature, and did something towards bringing books into fashion
among ladies of quality. The stainless purity of her private life and
the strict attention which she paid to her religious duties were the
more respectable, because she was singularly free from censoriousness,
and discouraged scandal as much as vice. In dislike of backbiting indeed
she and her husband cordially agreed; but they showed their dislike in
different and in very characteristic ways. William preserved profound
silence, and gave the talebearer a look which, as was said by a person
who had once encountered it, and who took good care never to encounter
it again, made your story go back down your throat. [57] Mary had a way
of interrupting tattle about elopements, duels, and playdebts by asking
the tattlers, very quietly yet significantly, whether they had ever read
her favourite sermon, Doctor Tillotson's on Evil Speaking. Her charities
were munificent and judicious; and, though she made no ostentatious
display of them, it was known that she retrenched from her own state in
order to relieve Protestants whom persecution had driven from France and
Ireland, and who were starving in the garrets of London. So amiable was
her conduct, that she was generally spoken of with esteem and tenderness
by the most respectable of those who disapproved of the manner in which
she had been raised to the throne, and even of those who refused
to acknowledge her as Queen. In the Jacobite lampoons of that time,
lampoons which, in virulence and malignity, far exceed any thing that
our age has produced, she was not often mentioned with severity. Indeed
she sometimes expressed her surprise at finding that libellers who
respected nothing else respected her name. God, she said, knew where
her weakness lay. She was too sensitive to abuse and calumny; He had
mercifully spared her a trial which was beyond her strength; and the
best return which she could make to Him was to discountenance all
malicious reflections on the characters of others. Assured that she
possessed her husband's entire confidence and affection, she turned the
edge of his sharp speeches sometimes by soft and sometimes by playful
answers, and employed all the influence which she derived from her many
pleasing qualities to gain the hearts of the people for him. [58]
If she had long continued to assemble round her the best society of
London, it is probable that her kindness and courtesy would have done
much to efface the unfavourable impression made by his stern and frigid
demeanour. Unhappily his physical infirmities made it impossible for him
to reside at Whitehall. The air of Westminster, mingled with the fog
of the river which in spring tides overflowed the courts of his palace,
with the smoke of seacoal from two hundred thousand chimneys, and with
the fumes of all the filth which was then suffered to accumulate in
the streets, was insupportable to him; for his lungs were weak, and his
sense of smell exquisitely keen. His constitutional asthma made rapid
progress. His physicians pronounced it impossible that he could live
to the end of the year. His face was so ghastly that he could hardly be
recognised. Those who had to transact business with him were shocked to
hear him gasping for breath, and coughing till the tears ran down his
cheeks. [59] His mind, strong as it was, sympathized with his body. His
judgment was indeed as clear as ever. But there was, during some
months, a perceptible relaxation of that energy by which he had been
distinguished. Even his Dutch friends whispered that he was not the man
that he had been at the Hague. [60] It was absolutely necessary that he
should quit London. He accordingly took up his residence in the purer
air of Hampton Court. That mansion, begun by the magnificent Wolsey, was
a fine specimen of the architecture which flourished in England under
the first Tudors; but the apartments were not, according to the notions
of the seventeenth century, well fitted for purposes of state. Our
princes therefore had, since the Restoration, repaired thither seldom,
and only when they wished to live for a time in retirement. As William
purposed to make the deserted edifice his chief palace, it was necessary
for him to build and to plant; nor was the necessity disagreeable to
him. For he had, like most of his countrymen, a pleasure in decorating
a country house; and next to hunting, though at a great interval, his
favourite amusements were architecture and gardening. He had already
created on a sandy heath in Guelders a paradise, which attracted
multitudes of the curious from Holland and Westphalia. Mary had laid the
first stone of the house. Bentinck had superintended the digging of the
fishponds. There were cascades and grottoes, a spacious orangery, and
an aviary which furnished Hondekoeter with numerous specimens of
manycoloured plumage. [61] The King, in his splendid banishment, pined
for this favourite seat, and found some consolation in creating another
Loo on the banks of the Thames. Soon a wide extent of ground was laid
out in formal walks and parterres. Much idle ingenuity was employed in
forming that intricate labyrinth of verdure which has puzzled and amused
five generations of holiday visitors from London. Limes thirty years
old were transplanted from neighbouring woods to shade the alleys.
Artificial fountains spouted among the flower beds. A new court, not
designed with the purest taste, but stately, spacious, and commodious,
rose under the direction of Wren. The wainscots were adorned with the
rich and delicate carvings of Gibbons. The staircases were in a blaze
with the glaring frescoes of Verrio. In every corner of the mansion
appeared a profusion of gewgaws, not yet familiar to English eyes. Mary
had acquired at the Hague a taste for the porcelain of China, and amused
herself by forming at Hampton a vast collection of hideous images, and
of vases on which houses, trees, bridges, and mandarins were depicted
in outrageous defiance of all the laws of perspective. The fashion, a
frivolous and inelegant fashion it must be owned, which was thus set
by the amiable Queen, spread fast and wide. In a few years almost
every great house in the kingdom contained a museum of these grotesque
baubles. Even statesmen and generals were not ashamed to be renowned as
judges of teapots and dragons; and satirists long continued to repeat
that a fine lady valued her mottled green pottery quite as much as she
valued her monkey, and much more than she valued her husband. [62] But
the new palace was embellished with works of art of a very different
kind. A gallery was erected for the cartoons of Raphael. Those great
pictures, then and still the finest on our side of the Alps, had been
preserved by Cromwell from the fate which befell most of the other
masterpieces in the collection of Charles the First, but had been
suffered to lie during many years nailed up in deal boxes. They were
now brought forth from obscurity to be contemplated by artists with
admiration and despair. The expense of the works at Hampton was a
subject of bitter complaint to many Tories, who had very gently blamed
the boundless profusion with which Charles the Second had built and
rebuilt, furnished and refurnished, the dwelling of the Duchess of
Portsmouth. [63] The expense, however, was not the chief cause of the
discontent which William's change of residence excited. There was no
longer a Court at Westminster. Whitehall, once the daily resort of the
noble and the powerful, the beautiful and the gay, the place to which
fops came to show their new peruques, men of gallantry to exchange
glances with fine ladies, politicians to push their fortunes, loungers
to hear the news, country gentlemen to see the royal family, was now,
in the busiest season of the year, when London was full, when Parliament
was sitting, left desolate. A solitary sentinel paced the grassgrown
pavement before that door which had once been too narrow for the
opposite streams of entering and departing courtiers. The services which
the metropolis had rendered to the King were great and recent; and it
was thought that he might have requited those services better than by
treating it as Lewis had treated Paris. Halifax ventured to hint this,
but was silenced by a few words which admitted of no reply. "Do you
wish," said William peevishly, "to see me dead?" [64]
In a short time it was found that Hampton Court was too far from the
Houses of Lords and Commons, and from the public offices, to be the
ordinary abode of the Sovereign. Instead, however, of returning to
Whitehall, William determined to have another dwelling, near enough to
his capital for the transaction of business, but not near enough to be
within that atmosphere in which he could not pass a night without risk
of suffocation. At one time he thought of Holland House, the villa of
the noble family of Rich; and he actually resided there some weeks.
[65] But he at length fixed his choice on Kensington House, the suburban
residence of the Earl of Nottingham. The purchase was made for eighteen
thousand guineas, and was followed by more building, more planting,
more expense, and more discontent. [66] At present Kensington House is
considered as a part of London. It was then a rural mansion, and could
not, in those days of highwaymen and scourers, of roads deep in mire and
nights without lamps, be the rallying point of fashionable society.
It was well known that the King, who treated the English nobility and
gentry so ungraciously, could, in a small circle of his own countrymen,
be easy, friendly, even jovial, could pour out his feelings garrulously,
could fill his glass, perhaps too often; and this was, in the view of
our forefathers, an aggravation of his offences. Yet our forefathers
should have had the sense and the justice to acknowledge that the
patriotism which they considered as a virtue in themselves, could not be
a fault in him. It was unjust to blame him for not at once transferring
to our island the love which he bore to the country of his birth. If, in
essentials, he did his duty towards England, he might well be suffered
to feel at heart an affectionate preference for Holland. Nor is it
a reproach to him that he did not, in this season of his greatness,
discard companions who had played with him in his childhood, who had
stood by him firmly through all the vicissitudes of his youth and
manhood, who had, in defiance of the most loathsome and deadly forms of
infection, kept watch by his sick-bed, who had, in the thickest of the
battle, thrust themselves between him and the French swords, and whose
attachment was, not to the Stadtholder or to the King, but to plain
William of Nassau. It may be added that his old friends could not but
rise in his estimation by comparison with his new courtiers. To the
end of his life all his Dutch comrades, without exception, continued
to deserve his confidence. They could be out of humour with him, it is
true; and, when out of humour, they could be sullen and rude; but
never did they, even when most angry and unreasonable, fail to keep
his secrets and to watch over his interests with gentlemanlike and
soldierlike fidelity. Among his English councillors such fidelity was
rare. [67] It is painful, but it is no more than just, to acknowledge
that he had but too good reason for thinking meanly of our national
character. That character was indeed, in essentials, what it has always
been. Veracity, uprightness, and manly boldness were then, as now,
qualities eminently English. But those qualities, though widely diffused
among the great body of the people, were seldom to be found in the
class with which William was best acquainted. The standard of honour and
virtue among our public men was, during his reign, at the very lowest
point. His predecessors had bequeathed to him a court foul with all the
vices of the Restoration, a court swarming with sycophants, who
were ready, on the first turn of fortune, to abandon him as they had
abandoned his uncle. Here and there, lost in that ignoble crowd, was to
be found a man of true integrity and public spirit. Yet even such a
man could not long live in such society without much risk that the
strictness of his principles would be relaxed, and the delicacy of
his sense of right and wrong impaired. It was unjust to blame a prince
surrounded by flatterers and traitors for wishing to keep near him four
or five servants whom he knew by proof to be faithful even to death.
Nor was this the only instance in which our ancestors were unjust to
him. They had expected that, as soon as so distinguished a soldier and
statesman was placed at the head of affairs, he would give some signal
proof, they scarcely knew what, of genius and vigour. Unhappily, during
the first months of his reign, almost every thing went wrong. His
subjects, bitterly disappointed, threw the blame on him, and began to
doubt whether he merited that reputation which he had won at his first
entrance into public life, and which the splendid success of his last
great enterprise had raised to the highest point. Had they been in
a temper to judge fairly, they would have perceived that for the
maladministration of which they with good reason complained he was not
responsible. He could as yet work only with the machinery which he had
found; and the machinery which he had found was all rust and rottenness.
From the time of the Restoration to the time of the Revolution, neglect
and fraud had been almost constantly impairing the efficiency of every
department of the government. Honours and public trusts, peerages,
baronetcies, regiments, frigates, embassies, governments,
commissionerships, leases of crown lands, contracts for clothing, for
provisions, for ammunition, pardons for murder, for robbery, for arson,
were sold at Whitehall scarcely less openly than asparagus at Covent
Garden or herrings at Billingsgate. Brokers had been incessantly plying
for custom in the purlieus of the court; and of these brokers the most
successful had been, in the days of Charles, the harlots, and in the
days of James, the priests. From the palace which was the chief seat of
this pestilence the taint had diffused itself through every office
and through every rank in every office, and had every where produced
feebleness and disorganization. So rapid was the progress of the decay
that, within eight years after the time when Oliver had been the umpire
of Europe, the roar of the guns of De Ruyter was heard in the Tower
of London. The vices which had brought that great humiliation on the
country had ever since been rooting themselves deeper and spreading
themselves wider. James had, to do him justice, corrected a few of the
gross abuses which disgraced the naval administration. Yet the naval
administration, in spite of his attempts to reform it, moved the
contempt of men who were acquainted with the dockyards of France and
Holland. The military administration was still worse. The courtiers
took bribes from the colonels; the colonels cheated the soldiers: the
commissaries sent in long bills for what had never been furnished: the
keepers of the arsenals sold the public stores and pocketed the price.
But these evils, though they had sprung into existence and grown
to maturity under the government of Charles and James, first made
themselves severely felt under the government of William. For Charles
and James were content to be the vassals and pensioners of a powerful
and ambitious neighbour: they submitted to his ascendency: they shunned
with pusillanimous caution whatever could give him offence; and thus,
at the cost of the independence and dignity of that ancient and glorious
crown which they unworthily wore, they avoided a conflict which would
instantly have shown how helpless, under their misrule, their once
formidable kingdom had become. Their ignominious policy it was neither
in William's power nor in his nature to follow. It was only by arms that
the liberty and religion of England could be protected against the most
formidable enemy that had threatened our island since the Hebrides were
strown with the wrecks of the Armada. The body politic, which, while it
remained in repose, had presented a superficial appearance of health
and vigour, was now under the necessity of straining every nerve in a
wrestle for life or death, and was immediately found to be unequal to
the exertion. The first efforts showed an utter relaxation of fibre, an
utter want of training. Those efforts were, with scarcely an exception,
failures; and every failure was popularly imputed, not to the rulers
whose mismanagement had produced the infirmities of the state, but to
the ruler in whose time the infirmities of the state became visible.
William might indeed, if he had been as absolute as Lewis, have used
such sharp remedies as would speedily have restored to the English
administration that firm tone which had been wanting since the death of
Oliver. But the instantaneous reform of inveterate abuses was a task far
beyond the powers of a prince strictly restrained by law, and restrained
still more strictly by the difficulties of his situation. [68]
Some of the most serious difficulties of his situation were caused by
the conduct of the ministers on whom, new as he was to the details of
English affairs, he was forced to rely for information about men and
things. There was indeed no want of ability among his chief counsellors:
but one half of their ability was employed in counteracting the other
half. Between the Lord President and the Lord Privy Seal there was an
inveterate enmity. [69] It had begun twelve years before when Danby was
Lord High Treasurer, a persecutor of nonconformists, an uncompromising
defender of prerogative, and when Halifax was rising to distinction as
one of the most eloquent leaders of the country party. In the reign of
James, the two statesmen had found themselves in opposition together;
and their common hostility to France and to Rome, to the High Commission
and to the dispensing power, had produced an apparent reconciliation;
but as soon as they were in office together the old antipathy revived.
The hatred which the Whig party felt towards them both ought, it should
seem, to have produced a close alliance between them: but in fact each
of them saw with complacency the danger which threatened the other.
Danby exerted himself to rally round him a strong phalanx of Tories.
Under the plea of ill health, he withdrew from court, seldom came to the
Council over which it was his duty to preside, passed much time in
the country, and took scarcely any part in public affairs except by
grumbling and sneering at all the acts of the government, and by doing
jobs and getting places for his personal retainers. [70] In consequence
of this defection, Halifax became prime minister, as far any minister
could, in that reign, be called prime minister. An immense load of
business fell on him; and that load he was unable to sustain. In wit and
eloquence, in amplitude of comprehension and subtlety of disquisition,
he had no equal among the statesmen of his time. But that very
fertility, that very acuteness, which gave a singular charm to his
conversation, to his oratory and to his writings, unfitted him for the
work of promptly deciding practical questions. He was slow from very
quickness. For he saw so many arguments for and against every possible
course that he was longer in making up his mind than a dull man would
have been. Instead of acquiescing in his first thoughts, he replied
on himself, rejoined on himself, and surrejoined on himself. Those who
heard him talk owned that he talked like an angel: but too often, when
he had exhausted all that could be said, and came to act, the time for
action was over.
Meanwhile the two Secretaries of State were constantly labouring to draw
their master in diametrically opposite directions. Every scheme,
every person, recommended by one of them was reprobated by the other.
Nottingham was never weary of repeating that the old Roundhead party,
the party which had taken the life of Charles the First and had plotted
against the life of Charles the Second, was in principle republican,
and that the Tories were the only true friends of monarchy. Shrewsbury
replied that the Tories might be friends of monarchy, but that they
regarded James as their monarch. Nottingham was always bringing to the
closet intelligence of the wild daydreams in which a few old eaters of
calf's head, the remains of the once formidable party of Bradshaw and
Ireton, still indulged at taverns in the city. Shrewsbury produced
ferocious lampoons which the Jacobites dropped every day in the
coffeehouses. "Every Whig," said the Tory Secretary, "is an enemy of
your Majesty's prerogative." "Every Tory," said the Whig Secretary, "is
an enemy of your Majesty's title." [71]
At the treasury there was a complication of jealousies and quarrels.
[72] Both the First Commissioner, Mordaunt, and the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, Delamere, were zealous Whigs but, though they held the same
political creed, their tempers differed widely. Mordaunt was volatile,
dissipated, and generous. The wits of that time laughed at the way in
which he flew about from Hampton Court to the Royal Exchange, and from
the Royal Exchange back to Hampton Court. How he found time for dress,
politics, lovemaking and balladmaking was a wonder. [73] Delamere was
gloomy and acrimonious, austere in his private morals, and punctual in
his devotions, but greedy of ignoble gain. The two principal ministers
of finance, therefore, became enemies, and agreed only in hating their
colleague Godolphin. What business had he at Whitehall in these days of
Protestant ascendency, he who had sate at the same board with Papists,
he who had never scrupled to attend Mary of Modena to the idolatrous
worship of the Mass? The most provoking circumstance was that Godolphin,
though his name stood only third in the commission, was really first
Lord. For in financial knowledge and in habits of business Mordaunt and
Delamere were mere children when compared with him; and this William
soon discovered. [74]
Similar feuds raged at the other great boards and through all the
subordinate ranks of public functionaries. In every customhouse, in
every arsenal, were a Shrewsbury and a Nottingham, a Delamere and a
Godolphin. The Whigs complained that there was no department in which
creatures of the fallen tyranny were not to be found. It was idle to
allege that these men were versed in the details of business, that they
were the depositaries of official traditions, and that the friends
of liberty, having been, during many years, excluded from public
employment, must necessarily be incompetent to take on themselves at
once the whole management of affairs. Experience doubtless had its
value: but surely the first of all the qualifications of a servant was
fidelity; and no Tory could be a really faithful servant of the new
government. If King William were wise, he would rather trust novices
zealous for his interest and honour than veterans who might indeed
possess ability and knowledge, but who would use that ability and that
knowledge to effect his ruin.
The Tories, on the other hand, complained that their share of power bore
no proportion to their number and their weight in the country, and that
every where old and useful public servants were, for the crime of being
friends to monarchy and to the Church, turned out of their posts to make
way for Rye House plotters and haunters of conventicles. These upstarts,
adepts in the art of factious agitation, but ignorant of all that
belonged to their new calling, would be just beginning to learn their
business when they had undone the nation by their blunders. To be a
rebel and a schismatic was surely not all that ought to be required of
a man in high employment. What would become of the finances, what of
the marine, if Whigs who could not understand the plainest balance
sheet were to manage the revenue, and Whigs who had never walked over a
dockyard to fit out the fleet. [75]
The truth is that the charges which the two parties brought against each
other were, to a great extent, well founded, but that the blame which
both threw on William was unjust. Official experience was to be found
almost exclusively among the Tories, hearty attachment to the new
settlement almost exclusively among the Whigs. It was not the fault
of the King that the knowledge and the zeal, which, combined, make a
valuable servant of the state must at that time be had separately or
not at all. If he employed men of one party, there was great risk of
mistakes. If he employed men of the other party, there was great risk of
treachery. If he employed men of both parties, there was still some risk
of mistakes; there was still some risk of treachery; and to these risks
was added the certainty of dissension. He might join Whigs and Tories;
but it was beyond his power to mix them. In the same office, at the
same desk, they were still enemies, and agreed only in murmuring at the
Prince who tried to mediate between them. It was inevitable that, in
such circumstances, the administration, fiscal, military, naval, should
be feeble and unsteady; that nothing should be done in quite the
right way or at quite the right time; that the distractions from which
scarcely any public office was exempt should produce disasters, and
that every disaster should increase the distractions from which it had
sprung.
There was indeed one department of which the business was well
conducted; and that was the department of Foreign Affairs. There William
directed every thing, and, on important occasions, neither asked the
advice nor employed the agency of any English politician. One invaluable
assistant he had, Anthony Heinsius, who, a few weeks after the
Revolution had been accomplished, became Pensionary of Holland. Heinsius
had entered public life as a member of that party which was jealous of
the power of the House of Orange, and desirous to be on friendly terms
with France. But he had been sent in 1681 on a diplomatic mission to
Versailles; and a short residence there had produced a complete change
in his views. On a near acquaintance, he was alarmed by the power and
provoked by the insolence of that Court of which, while he contemplated
it only at a distance, he had formed a favourable opinion. He found that
his country was despised. He saw his religion persecuted. His official
character did not save him from some personal affronts which, to the
latest day of his long career, he never forgot. He went home a devoted
adherent of William and a mortal enemy of Lewis. [76]
The office of Pensionary, always important, was peculiarly important
when the Stadtholder was absent from the Hague. Had the politics of
Heinsius been still what they once were, all the great designs of
William might have been frustrated. But happily there was between these
two eminent men a perfect friendship which, till death dissolved it,
appears never to have been interrupted for one moment by suspicion or
ill humour. On all large questions of European policy they cordially
agreed. They corresponded assiduously and most unreservedly. For though
William was slow to give his confidence, yet, when he gave it, he gave
it entire. The correspondence is still extant, and is most honourable to
both. The King's letters would alone suffice to prove that he was one
of the greatest statesmen whom Europe has produced. While he lived, the
Pensionary was content to be the most obedient, the most trusty, and
the most discreet of servants. But, after the death of the master, the
servant proved himself capable of supplying with eminent ability the
master's place, and was renowned throughout Europe as one of the great
Triumvirate which humbled the pride of Lewis the Fourteenth. [77]
The foreign policy of England, directed immediately by William in
close concert with Heinsius, was, at this time, eminently skilful and
successful. But in every other part of the administration the evils
arising from the mutual animosity of factions were but too plainly
discernible. Nor was this all. To the evils arising from the mutual
animosity of factions were added other evils arising from the mutual
animosity of sects.
The year 1689 is a not less important epoch in the ecclesiastical than
in the civil history of England. In that year was granted the first
legal indulgence to Dissenters. In that year was made the last serious
attempt to bring the Presbyterians within the pale of the Church of
England. From that year dates a new schism, made, in defiance of ancient
precedents, by men who had always professed to regard schism with
peculiar abhorrence, and ancient precedents with peculiar veneration.
In that year began the long struggle between two great parties of
conformists. Those parties indeed had, under various forms, existed
within the Anglican communion ever since the Reformation; but till after
the Revolution they did not appear marshalled in regular and permanent
order of battle against each other, and were therefore not known by
established names. Some time after the accession of William they began
to be called the High Church party and the Low Church party; and, long
before the end of his reign, these appellations were in common use. [78]
In the summer of 1688 the breaches which had long divided the great body
of English Protestants had seemed to be almost closed. Disputes about
Bishops and Synods, written prayers and extemporaneous prayers, white
gowns and black gowns, sprinkling and dipping, kneeling and sitting,
had been for a short space intermitted. The serried array which was then
drawn up against Popery measured the whole of the vast interval which
separated Sancroft from Bunyan. Prelates recently conspicuous as
persecutors now declared themselves friends of religious liberty, and
exhorted their clergy to live in a constant interchange of hospitality
and of kind offices with the separatists. Separatists, on the other
hand, who had recently considered mitres and lawn sleeves as the livery
of Antichrist, were putting candles in windows and throwing faggots on
bonfires in honour of the prelates.
These feelings continued to grow till they attained their greatest
height on the memorable day on which the common oppressor finally
quitted Whitehall, and on which an innumerable multitude, tricked out in
orange ribands, welcomed the common deliverer to Saint James's. When the
clergy of London came, headed by Compton, to express their gratitude to
him by whose instrumentality God had wrought salvation for the Church
and the State, the procession was swollen by some eminent nonconformist
divines. It was delightful to many good men to learn that pious and
learned Presbyterian ministers had walked in the train of a Bishop, had
been greeted by him with fraternal kindness, and had been announced by
him in the presence chamber as his dear and respected friends, separated
from him indeed by some differences of opinion on minor points, but
united to him by Christian charity and by common zeal for the essentials
of the reformed faith. There had never before been such a day in
England; and there has never since been such a day. The tide of feeling
was already on the turn; and the ebb was even more rapid than the
flow had been. In a very few hours the High Churchman began to feel
tenderness for the enemy whose tyranny was now no longer feared, and
dislike of the allies whose services were now no longer needed. It
was easy to gratify both feelings by imputing to the dissenters the
misgovernment of the exiled King. His Majesty-such was now the language
of too many Anglican divines-would have been an excellent sovereign
had he not been too confiding, too forgiving. He had put his trust in
a class of men who hated his office, his family, his person, with
implacable hatred. He had ruined himself in the vain attempt to
conciliate them. He had relieved them, in defiance of law and of the
unanimous sense of the old royalist party, from the pressure of the
penal code; had allowed them to worship God publicly after their own
mean and tasteless fashion; had admitted them to the bench of justice
and to the Privy Council; had gratified them with fur robes, gold
chains, salaries, and pensions. In return for his liberality, these
people, once so uncouth in demeanour, once so savage in opposition even
to legitimate authority, had become the most abject of flatterers. They
had continued to applaud and encourage him when the most devoted friends
of his family had retired in shame and sorrow from his palace. Who had
more foully sold the religion and liberty of his country than Titus? Who
had been more zealous for the dispensing power than Alsop? Who had urged
on the persecution of the seven Bishops more fiercely than Lobb? What
chaplain impatient for a deanery had ever, even when preaching in the
royal presence on the thirtieth of January or the twenty-ninth of
May, uttered adulation more gross than might easily be found in
those addresses by which dissenting congregations had testified their
gratitude for the illegal Declaration of Indulgence? Was it strange that
a prince who had never studied law books should have believed that
he was only exercising his rightful prerogative, when he was thus
encouraged by a faction which had always ostentatiously professed hatred
of arbitrary power? Misled by such guidance, he had gone further and
further in the wrong path: he had at length estranged from him hearts
which would once have poured forth their best blood in his defence: he
had left himself no supporters except his old foes; and, when the day
of peril came, he had found that the feeling of his old foes towards
him was still what it had been when they had attempted to rob him of his
inheritance, and when they had plotted against his life. Every man of
sense had long known that the sectaries bore no love to monarchy. It had
now been found that they bore as little love to freedom. To trust them
with power would be an error not less fatal to the nation than to the
throne. If, in order to redeem pledges somewhat rashly given, it should
be thought necessary to grant them relief, every concession ought to be
accompanied by limitations and precautions. Above all, no man who was
an enemy to the ecclesiastical constitution of the realm ought to be
permitted to bear any part in the civil government.
Between the nonconformists and the rigid conformists stood the Low
Church party. That party contained, as it still contains, two very
different elements, a Puritan element and a Latitudinarian element. On
almost every question, however, relating either to ecclesiastical polity
or to the ceremonial of public worship, the Puritan Low Churchman and
the Latitudinarian Low Churchman were perfectly agreed. They saw in the
existing polity and in the existing ceremonial no defect, no blemish,
which could make it their duty to become dissenters. Nevertheless they
held that both the polity and the ceremonial were means and not ends,
and that the essential spirit of Christianity might exist without
episcopal orders and without a Book of Common Prayer. They had, while
James was on the throne, been mainly instrumental in forming the great
Protestant coalition against Popery and tyranny; and they continued in
1689 to hold the same conciliatory language which they had held in
1688. They gently blamed the scruples of the nonconformists. It was
undoubtedly a great weakness to imagine that there could be any sin in
wearing a white robe, in tracing a cross, in kneeling at the rails of an
altar. But the highest authority had given the plainest directions as
to the manner in which such weakness was to be treated. The weak brother
was not to be judged: he was not to be despised: believers who had
stronger minds were commanded to soothe him by large compliances, and
carefully to remove out of his path every stumbling block which could
cause him to offend. An apostle had declared that, though he had himself
no misgivings about the use of animal food or of wine, he would eat
herbs and drink water rather than give scandal to the feeblest of his
flock. What would he have thought of ecclesiastical rulers who, for the
sake of a vestment, a gesture, a posture, had not only torn the Church
asunder, but had filled all the gaols of England with men of orthodox
faith and saintly life? The reflections thrown by the High Churchmen on
the recent conduct of the dissenting body the Low Churchmen pronounced
to be grossly unjust. The wonder was, not that a few nonconformists
should have accepted with thanks an indulgence which, illegal as it
was, had opened the doors of their prisons and given security to their
hearths, but that the nonconformists generally should have been true
to the cause of a constitution from the benefits of which they had been
long excluded. It was most unfair to impute to a great party the faults
of a few individuals. Even among the Bishops of the Established Church
James had found tools and sycophants. The conduct of Cartwright and
Parker had been much more inexcusable than that of Alsop and Lobb. Yet
those who held the dissenters answerable for the errors of Alsop and
Lobb would doubtless think it most unreasonable to hold the Church
answerable for the far deeper guilt of Cartwright and Parker.
The Low Church clergymen were a minority, and not a large minority, of
their profession: but their weight was much more than proportioned to
their numbers: for they mustered strong in the capital: they had great
influence there; and the average of intellect and knowledge was higher
among them than among their order generally. We should probably overrate
their numerical strength, if we were to estimate them at a tenth part
of the priesthood. Yet it will scarcely be denied that there were among
them as many men of distinguished eloquence and learning as could be
found in the other nine tenths. Among the laity who conformed to the
established religion the parties were not unevenly balanced. Indeed
the line which separated them deviated very little from the line which
separated the Whigs and the Tories. In the House of Commons, which
had been elected when the Whigs were triumphant, the Low Church party
greatly preponderated. In the Lords there was an almost exact equipoise;
and very slight circumstances sufficed to turn the scale.
The head of the Low Church party was the King. He had been bred a
Presbyterian: he was, from rational conviction, a Latitudinarian; and
personal ambition, as well as higher motives, prompted him to act as
mediator among Protestant sects. He was bent on effecting three great
reforms in the laws touching ecclesiastical matters. His first object
was to obtain for dissenters permission to celebrate their worship in
freedom and security. His second object was to make such changes in
the Anglican ritual and polity as, without offending those to whom
that ritual and polity were dear, might conciliate the moderate
nonconformists. His third object was to throw open civil offices to
Protestants without distinction of sect. All his three objects were
good; but the first only was at that time attainable. He came too late
for the second, and too early for the third.
A few days after his accession, he took a step which indicated, in a
manner not to be mistaken, his sentiments touching ecclesiastical polity
and public worship. He found only one see unprovided with a Bishop. Seth
Ward, who had during many years had charge of the diocese of Salisbury,
and who had been honourably distinguished as one of the founders of
the Royal Society, having long survived his faculties, died while
the country was agitated by the elections for the Convention, without
knowing that great events, of which not the least important had passed
under his own roof, had saved his Church and his country from ruin. The
choice of a successor was no light matter. That choice would inevitably
be considered by the country as a prognostic of the highest import.
The King too might well be perplexed by the number of divines whose
erudition, eloquence, courage, and uprightness had been conspicuously
displayed during the contentions of the last three years. The preference
was given to Burnet. His claims were doubtless great. Yet William might
have had a more tranquil reign if he had postponed for a time the well
earned promotion of his chaplain, and had bestowed the first great
spiritual preferment, which, after the Revolution, fell to the
disposal of the Crown, on some eminent theologian, attached to the new
settlement, yet not generally hated by the clergy. Unhappily the name
of Burnet was odious to the great majority of the Anglican priesthood.
Though, as respected doctrine, he by no means belonged to the extreme
section of the Latitudinarian party, he was popularly regarded as the
personification of the Latitudinarian spirit. This distinction he owed
to the prominent place which he held in literature and politics, to the
readiness of his tongue and of his pert, and above all to the frankness
and boldness of his nature, frankness which could keep no secret, and
boldness which flinched from no danger. He had formed but a low estimate
of the character of his clerical brethren considered as a body; and,
with his usual indiscretion, he frequently suffered his opinion to
escape him. They hated him in return with a hatred which has descended
to their successors, and which, after the lapse of a century and a half,
does not appear to languish.
As soon as the King's decision was known, the question was every where
asked, What will the Archbishop do? Sancroft had absented himself from
the Convention: he had refused to sit in the Privy Council: he had
ceased to confirm, to ordain, and to institute; and he was seldom
seen out of the walls of his palace at Lambeth. He, on all occasions,
professed to think himself still bound by his old oath of allegiance.
Burnet he regarded as a scandal to the priesthood, a Presbyterian in a
surplice. The prelate who should lay hands on that unworthy head would
commit more than one great sin. He would, in a sacred place, and before
a great congregation of the faithful, at once acknowledge an usurper
as a King, and confer on a schismatic the character of a Bishop. During
some time Sancroft positively declared that he would not obey the
precept of William. Lloyd of Saint Asaph, who was the common friend of
the Archbishop and of the Bishop elect, intreated and expostulated
in vain. Nottingham, who, of all the laymen connected with the new
government, stood best with the clergy, tried his influence, but to no
better purpose. The Jacobites said every where that they were sure of
the good old Primate; that he had the spirit of a martyr; that he was
determined to brave, in the cause of the Monarchy and of the Church, the
utmost rigour of those laws with which the obsequious parliaments of the
sixteenth century had fenced the Royal Supremacy. He did in truth hold
out long. But at the last moment his heart failed him, and he looked
round him for some mode of escape. Fortunately, as childish scruples
often disturbed his conscience, childish expedients often quieted it. A
more childish expedient than that to which he now resorted is not to be
found in all the tones of the casuists. He would not himself bear a part
in the service. He would not publicly pray for the Prince and Princess
as King and Queen. He would not call for their mandate, order it to be
read, and then proceed to obey it. But he issued a commission empowering
any three of his suffragans to commit, in his name, and as his
delegates, the sins which he did not choose to commit in person. The
reproaches of all parties soon made him ashamed of himself. He then
tried to suppress the evidence of his fault by means more discreditable
than the fault itself. He abstracted from among the public records of
which he was the guardian the instrument by which he had authorised his
brethren to act for him, and was with difficulty induced to give it up.
[79]
Burnet however had, under the authority of this instrument, been
consecrated. When he next waited on Mary, she reminded him of the
conversations which they had held at the Hague about the high duties and
grave responsibility of Bishops. "I hope," she said, "that you will put
your notions in practice." Her hope was not disappointed. Whatever
may be thought of Burnet's opinions touching civil and ecclesiastical
polity, or of the temper and judgment which he showed in defending those
opinions, the utmost malevolence of faction could not venture to deny
that he tended his flock with a zeal, diligence, and disinterestedness
worthy of the purest ages of the Church. His jurisdiction extended over
Wiltshire and Berkshire. These counties he divided into districts which
he sedulously visited. About two months of every summer he passed in
preaching, catechizing, and confirming daily from church to church. When
he died there was no corner of his diocese in which the people had not
had seven or eight opportunities of receiving his instructions and of
asking his advice. The worst weather, the worst roads, did not prevent
him from discharging these duties. On one occasion, when the floods were
out, he exposed his life to imminent risk rather than disappoint a rural
congregation which was in expectation of a discourse from the Bishop.
The poverty of the inferior clergy was a constant cause of uneasiness
to his kind and generous heart. He was indefatigable and at length
successful in his attempts to obtain for them from the Crown that
grant which is known by the name of Queen Anne's Bounty. [80] He was
especially careful, when he travelled through his diocese, to lay
no burden on them. Instead of requiring them to entertain him, he
entertained them. He always fixed his headquarters at a market town,
kept a table there, and, by his decent hospitality and munificent
charities, tried to conciliate those who were prejudiced against his
doctrines. When he bestowed a poor benefice, and he had many such to
bestow, his practice was to add out of his own purse twenty pounds a
year to the income. Ten promising young men, to each of whom he allowed
thirty pounds a year, studied divinity under his own eye in the close
of Salisbury. He had several children but he did not think himself
justified in hoarding for them. Their mother had brought him a good
fortune. With that fortune, he always said, they must be content: He
would not, for their sakes, be guilty of the crime of raising an estate
out of revenues sacred to piety and charity. Such merits as these will,
in the judgment of wise and candid men, appear fully to atone for every
offence which can be justly imputed to him. [81]
When he took his seat in the House of Lords, he found that assembly
busied in ecclesiastical legislation. A statesman who was well known
to be devoted to the Church had undertaken to plead the cause of the
Dissenters. No subject in the realm occupied so important and commanding
a position with reference to religious parties as Nottingham. To the
influence derived from rank, from wealth, and from office, he added
the higher influence which belongs to knowledge, to eloquence, and to
integrity. The orthodoxy of his creed, the regularity of his devotions,
and the purity of his morals gave a peculiar weight to his opinions on
questions in which the interests of Christianity were concerned. Of all
the ministers of the new Sovereigns, he had the largest share of the
confidence of the clergy. Shrewsbury was certainly a Whig, and probably
a freethinker: he had lost one religion; and it did not very clearly
appear that he had found another. Halifax had been during many years
accused of scepticism, deism, atheism. Danby's attachment to episcopacy
and the liturgy was rather political than religious. But Nottingham
was such a son as the Church was proud to own. Propositions, therefore,
which, if made by his colleagues, would infallibly produce a violent
panic among the clergy, might, if made by him, find a favourable
reception even in universities and chapter houses. The friends
of religious liberty were with good reason desirous to obtain his
cooperation; and, up to a certain point, he was not unwilling to
cooperate with them. He was decidedly for a toleration. He was even for
what was then called a comprehension: that is to say, he was desirous
to make some alterations in the Anglican discipline and ritual for the
purpose of removing the scruples of the moderate Presbyterians. But he
was not prepared to give up the Test Act. The only fault which he found
with that Act was that it was not sufficiently stringent, and that it
left loopholes through which schismatics sometimes crept into civil
employments. In truth it was because he was not disposed to part with
the Test that he was willing to consent to some changes in the Liturgy.
He conceived that, if the entrance of the Church were but a very little
widened, great numbers who had hitherto lingered near the threshold
would press in. Those who still remained without would then not be
sufficiently numerous or powerful to extort any further concession, and
would be glad to compound for a bare toleration. [82]
The opinion of the Low Churchmen concerning the Test Act differed widely
from his. But many of them thought that it was of the highest
importance to have his support on the great questions of Toleration and
Comprehension. From the scattered fragments of information which have
come down to us, it appears that a compromise was made. It is quite
certain that Nottingham undertook to bring in a Toleration Bill and a
Comprehension Bill, and to use his best endeavours to carry both bills
through the House of Lords. It is highly probable that, in return for
this great service, some of the leading Whigs consented to let the Test
Act remain for the present unaltered.
There was no difficulty in framing either the Toleration Bill or the
Comprehension Bill. The situation of the dissenters had been much
discussed nine or ten years before, when the kingdom was distracted
by the fear of a Popish plot, and when there was among Protestants a
general disposition to unite against the common enemy. The government
had then been willing to make large concessions to the Whig party, on
condition that the crown should be suffered to descend according to the
regular course. A draught of a law authorising the public worship of the
nonconformists, and a draught of a law making some alterations in the
public worship of the Established Church, had been prepared, and would
probably have been passed by both Houses without difficulty, had not
Shaftesbury and his coadjutors refused to listen to any terms, and, by
grasping at what was beyond their reach, missed advantages which might
easily have been secured. In the framing of these draughts, Nottingham,
then an active member of the House of Commons, had borne a considerable
part. He now brought them forth from the obscurity in which they had
remained since the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament, and laid them,
with some slight alterations, on the table of the Lords. [83]
The Toleration Bill passed both Houses with little debate. This
celebrated statute, long considered as the Great Charter of religious
liberty, has since been extensively modified, and is hardly known to
the present generation except by name. The name, however, is still
pronounced with respect by many who will perhaps learn with surprise
and disappointment the real nature of the law which they have been
accustomed to hold in honour.
Several statutes which had been passed between the accession of Queen
Elizabeth and the Revolution required all people under severe penalties
to attend the services of the Church of England, and to abstain from
attending conventicles. The Toleration Act did not repeal any of these
statutes, but merely provided that they should not be construed to
extend to any person who should testify his loyalty by taking the Oaths
of Allegiance and Supremacy, and his Protestantism by subscribing the
Declaration against Transubstantiation.
The relief thus granted was common between the dissenting laity and
the dissenting clergy. But the dissenting clergy had some peculiar
grievances. The Act of Uniformity had laid a mulct of a hundred pounds
on every person who, not having received episcopal ordination, should
presume to administer the Eucharist. The Five Mile Act had driven many
pious and learned ministers from their houses and their friends, to live
among rustics in obscure villages of which the name was not to be seen
on the map. The Conventicle Act had imposed heavy fines on divines who
should preach in any meeting of separatists; and, in direct opposition
to the humane spirit of our common law, the Courts were enjoined to
construe this Act largely and beneficially for the suppressing of
dissent and for the encouraging of informers. These severe statutes were
not repealed, but were, with many conditions and precautions, relaxed.
It was provided that every dissenting minister should, before he
exercised his function, profess under his hand his belief in the
articles of the Church of England, with a few exceptions. The
propositions to which he was not required to assent were these; that the
Church has power to regulate ceremonies; that the doctrines set forth in
the Book of Homilies are sound; and that there is nothing superstitious
and idolatrous in the ordination service. If he declared himself a
Baptist, he was also excused from affirming that the baptism of infants
is a laudable practice. But, unless his conscience suffered him to
subscribe thirty-four of the thirty-nine articles, and the greater part
of two other articles, he could not preach without incurring all the
punishments which the Cavaliers, in the day of their power and their
vengeance, had devised for the tormenting and ruining of schismatical
teachers.
The situation of the Quaker differed from that of other dissenters,
and differed for the worse. The Presbyterian, the Independent, and
the Baptist had no scruple about the Oath of Supremacy. But the Quaker
refused to take it, not because he objected to the proposition that
foreign sovereigns and prelates have no jurisdiction in England, but
because his conscience would not suffer him to swear to any proposition
whatever. He was therefore exposed to the severity of part of that penal
code which, long before Quakerism existed, had been enacted against
Roman Catholics by the Parliaments of Elizabeth. Soon after the
Restoration, a severe law, distinct from the general law which applied
to all conventicles, had been passed against meetings of Quakers. The
Toleration Act permitted the members of this harmless sect to hold
their assemblies in peace, on condition of signing three documents, a
declaration against Transubstantiation, a promise of fidelity to the
government, and a confession of Christian belief. The objections which
the Quaker had to the Athanasian phraseology had brought on him the
imputation of Socinianism; and the strong language in which he sometimes
asserted that he derived his knowledge of spiritual things directly from
above had raised a suspicion that he thought lightly of the authority
of Scripture. He was therefore required to profess his faith in the
divinity of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, and in the inspiration of the
Old and New Testaments.
Such were the terms on which the Protestant dissenters of England were,
for the first time, permitted by law to worship God according to their
own conscience. They were very properly forbidden to assemble with
barred doors, but were protected against hostile intrusion by a
clause which made it penal to enter a meeting house for the purpose of
molesting the congregation.
As if the numerous limitations and precautions which have been mentioned
were insufficient, it was emphatically declared that the legislature
did not intend to grant the smallest indulgence to any Papist, or to any
person who denied the doctrine of the Trinity as that doctrine is set
forth in the formularies of the Church of England.
Of all the Acts that have ever been passed by Parliament, the Toleration
Act is perhaps that which most strikingly illustrates the peculiar vices
and the peculiar excellences of English legislation. The science
of Politics bears in one respect a close analogy to the science of
Mechanics. The mathematician can easily demonstrate that a certain
power, applied by means of a certain lever or of a certain system of
pulleys, will suffice to raise a certain weight. But his demonstration
proceeds on the supposition that the machinery is such as no load will
bend or break. If the engineer, who has to lift a great mass of real
granite by the instrumentality of real timber and real hemp, should
absolutely rely on the propositions which he finds in treatises on
Dynamics, and should make no allowance for the imperfection of his
materials, his whole apparatus of beams, wheels, and ropes would soon
come down in ruin, and, with all his geometrical skill, he would be
found a far inferior builder to those painted barbarians who, though
they never heard of the parallelogram of forces, managed to pile up
Stonehenge. What the engineer is to the mathematician, the active
statesman is to the contemplative statesman. It is indeed most important
that legislators and administrators should be versed in the philosophy
of government, as it is most important that the architect, who has to
fix an obelisk on its pedestal, or to hang a tubular bridge over an
estuary, should be versed in the philosophy of equilibrium and motion.
But, as he who has actually to build must bear in mind many things never
noticed by D'Alembert and Euler, so must he who has actually to govern
be perpetually guided by considerations to which no allusion can be
found in the writings of Adam Smith or Jeremy Bentham. The perfect
lawgiver is a just temper between the mere man of theory, who can see
nothing but general principles, and the mere man of business, who can
see nothing but particular circumstances. Of lawgivers in whom the
speculative element has prevailed to the exclusion of the practical,
the world has during the last eighty years been singularly fruitful.
To their wisdom Europe and America have owed scores of abortive
constitutions, scores of constitutions which have lived just long enough
to make a miserable noise, and have then gone off in convulsions. But in
the English legislature the practical element has always predominated,
and not seldom unduly predominated, over the speculative. To think
nothing of symmetry and much of convenience; never to remove an anomaly
merely because it is an anomaly; never to innovate except when some
grievance is felt; never to innovate except so far as to get rid of the
grievance; never to lay down any proposition of wider extent than the
particular case for which it is necessary to provide; these are the
rules which have, from the age of John to the age of Victoria, generally
guided the deliberations of our two hundred and fifty Parliaments. Our
national distaste for whatever is abstract in political science amounts
undoubtedly to a fault. But it is, perhaps, a fault on the right side.
That we have been far too slow to improve our laws must be admitted.
But, though in other countries there may have occasionally been more
rapid progress, it would not be easy to name any other country in which
there has been so little retrogression.
The Toleration Act approaches very near to the idea of a great
English law. To a jurist, versed in the theory of legislation, but not
intimately acquainted with the temper of the sects and parties into
which the nation was divided at the time of the Revolution, that Act
would seem to be a mere chaos of absurdities and contradictions. It will
not bear to be tried by sound general principles. Nay, it will not bear
to be tried by any principle, sound or unsound. The sound principle
undoubtedly is, that mere theological error ought not to be punished by
the civil magistrate. This principle the Toleration Act not only does
not recognise, but positively disclaims. Not a single one of the cruel
laws enacted against nonconformists by the Tudors or the Stuarts is
repealed. Persecution continues to be the general rule. Toleration is
the exception. Nor is this all. The freedom which is given to
conscience is given in the most capricious manner. A Quaker, by making
a declaration of faith in general terms, obtains the full benefit of
the Act without signing one of the thirty-nine Articles. An Independent
minister, who is perfectly willing to make the declaration required
from the Quaker, but who has doubts about six or seven of the Articles,
remains still subject to the penal laws. Howe is liable to punishment if
he preaches before he has solemnly declared his assent to the Anglican
doctrine touching the Eucharist. Penn, who altogether rejects
the Eucharist, is at perfect liberty to preach without making any
declaration whatever on the subject.
These are some of the obvious faults which must strike every person who
examines the Toleration Act by that standard of just reason which is the
same in all countries and in all ages. But these very faults may perhaps
appear to be merits, when we take into consideration the passions and
prejudices of those for whom the Toleration Act was framed. This
law, abounding with contradictions which every smatterer in political
philosophy can detect, did what a law framed by the utmost skill of the
greatest masters of political philosophy might have failed to do. That
the provisions which have been recapitulated are cumbrous, puerile,
inconsistent with each other, inconsistent with the true theory of
religious liberty, must be acknowledged. All that can be said in their
defence is this; that they removed a vast mass of evil without shocking
a vast mass of prejudice; that they put an end, at once and for ever,
without one division in either House of Parliament, without one riot in
the streets, with scarcely one audible murmur even from the classes most
deeply tainted with bigotry, to a persecution which had raged during
four generations, which had broken innumerable hearts, which had made
innumerable firesides desolate, which had filled the prisons with men
of whom the world was not worthy, which had driven thousands of those
honest, diligent and godfearing yeomen and artisans, who are the true
strength of a nation, to seek a refuge beyond the ocean among the
wigwams of red Indians and the lairs of panthers. Such a defence,
however weak it may appear to some shallow speculators, will probably be
thought complete by statesmen.
The English, in 1689, were by no means disposed to admit the doctrine
that religious error ought to be left unpunished. That doctrine was just
then more unpopular than it had ever been. For it had, only a few months
before, been hypocritically put forward as a pretext for persecuting the
Established Church, for trampling on the fundamental laws of the realm,
for confiscating freeholds, for treating as a crime the modest exercise
of the right of petition. If a bill had then been drawn up granting
entire freedom of conscience to all Protestants, it may be confidently
affirmed that Nottingham would never have introduced such a bill; that
all the bishops, Burnet included, would have voted against it; that
it would have been denounced, Sunday after Sunday, from ten thousand
pulpits, as an insult to God and to all Christian men, and as a license
to the worst heretics and blasphemers; that it would have been condemned
almost as vehemently by Bates and Baxter as by Ken and Sherlock; that it
would have been burned by the mob in half the market places of England;
that it would never have become the law of the land, and that it would
have made the very name of toleration odious during many years to the
majority of the people. And yet, if such a bill had been passed, what
would it have effected beyond what was effected by the Toleration Act?
It is true that the Toleration Act recognised persecution as the rule,
and granted liberty of conscience only as the exception. But it is
equally true that the rule remained in force only against a few hundreds
of Protestant dissenters, and that the benefit of the exceptions
extended to hundreds of thousands.
It is true that it was in theory absurd to make Howe sign thirty-four or
thirty-five of the Anglican articles before he could preach, and to let
Penn preach without signing one of those articles. But it is equally
true that, under this arrangement, both Howe and Penn got as entire
liberty to preach as they could have had under the most philosophical
code that Beccaria or Jefferson could have framed.
The progress of the bill was easy. Only one amendment of grave
importance was proposed. Some zealous churchmen in the Commons suggested
that it might be desirable to grant the toleration only for a term of
seven years, and thus to bind over the nonconformists to good behaviour.
But this suggestion was so unfavourably received that those who made it
did not venture to divide the House. [84]
The King gave his consent with hearty satisfaction: the bill became law;
and the Puritan divines thronged to the Quarter Sessions of every county
to swear and sign. Many of them probably professed their assent to the
Articles with some tacit reservations. But the tender conscience of
Baxter would not suffer him to qualify, till he had put on record an
explanation of the sense in which he understood every proposition which
seemed to him to admit of misconstruction. The instrument delivered by
him to the Court before which he took the oaths is still extant,
and contains two passages of peculiar interest. He declared that his
approbation of the Athanasian Creed was confined to that part which was
properly a Creed, and that he did not mean to express any assent to
the damnatory clauses. He also declared that he did not, by signing the
article which anathematizes all who maintain that there is any other
salvation than through Christ, mean to condemn those who entertain a
hope that sincere and virtuous unbelievers may be admitted to partake
in the benefits of Redemption. Many of the dissenting clergy of London
expressed their concurrence in these charitable sentiments. [85]
The history of the Comprehension Bill presents a remarkable contrast to
the history of the Toleration Bill. The two bills had a common origin,
and, to a great extent, a common object. They were framed at the same
time, and laid aside at the same time: they sank together into oblivion;
and they were, after the lapse of several years, again brought together
before the world. Both were laid by the same peer on the table of the
Upper House; and both were referred to the same select committee. But
it soon began to appear that they would have widely different fates.
The Comprehension Bill was indeed a neater specimen of legislative
workmanship than the Toleration Bill, but was not, like the Toleration
Bill, adapted to the wants, the feelings, and the prejudices of the
existing generation. Accordingly, while the Toleration Bill found
support in all quarters, the Comprehension Bill was attacked from all
quarters, and was at last coldly and languidly defended even by those
who had introduced it. About the same time at which the Toleration bill
became law with the general concurrence of public men, the Comprehension
Bill was, with a concurrence not less general, suffered to drop. The
Toleration Bill still ranks among those great statutes which are epochs
in our constitutional history. The Comprehension Bill is forgotten. No
collector of antiquities has thought it worth preserving. A single copy,
the same which Nottingham presented to the peers, is still among our
parliamentary records, but has been seen by only two or three persons
now living. It is a fortunate circumstance that, in this copy, almost
the whole history of the Bill can be read. In spite of cancellations
and interlineations, the original words can easily be distinguished from
those which were inserted in the committee or on the report. [86]
The first clause, as it stood when the bill was introduced, dispensed
all the ministers of the Established Church from the necessity of
subscribing the Thirty-nine Articles. For the Articles was substituted
a Declaration which ran thus; "I do approve of the doctrine and
worship and government of the Church of England by law established,
as containing all things necessary to salvation; and I promise, in the
exercise of my ministry, to preach and practice according thereunto."
Another clause granted similar indulgence to the members of the two
universities.
Then it was provided that any minister who had been ordained after
the Presbyterian fashion might, without reordination, acquire all the
privileges of a priest of the Established Church. He must, however,
be admitted to his new functions by the imposition of the hands of a
bishop, who was to pronounce the following form of words; "Take thou
authority to preach the word of God, and administer the sacraments, and
to perform all other ministerial offices in the Church of England."
The person thus admitted was to be capable of holding any rectory or
vicarage in the kingdom.
Then followed clauses providing that a clergyman might, except in a few
churches of peculiar dignity, wear the surplice or not as he thought
fit, that the sign of the cross might be omitted in baptism, that
children might be christened, if such were the wish of their parents,
without godfathers or godmothers, and that persons who had a scruple
about receiving the Eucharist kneeling might receive it sitting.
The concluding clause was drawn in the form of a petition. It was
proposed that the two Houses should request the King and Queen to issue
a commission empowering thirty divines of the Established Church
to revise the liturgy, the canons, and the constitution of the
ecclesiastical courts, and to recommend such alterations as might on
inquiry appear to be desirable.
The bill went smoothly through the first stages. Compton, who, since
Sancroft had shut himself up at Lambeth, was virtually Primate,
supported Nottingham with ardour. [87] In the committee, however, it
appeared that there was a strong body of churchmen, who were determined
not to give up a single word or form; to whom it seemed that the prayers
were no prayers without the surplice, the babe no Christian if not
marked with the cross, the bread and wine no memorials of redemption
or vehicles of grace if not received on bended knee. Why, these persons
asked, was the docile and affectionate son of the Church to be disgusted
by seeing the irreverent practices of a conventicle introduced into her
majestic choirs? Why should his feelings, his prejudices, if prejudices
they were, be less considered than the whims of schismatics? If, as
Burnet and men like Burnet were never weary of repeating, indulgence
was due to a weak brother, was it less due to the brother whose
weakness consisted in the excess of his love for an ancient, a decent, a
beautiful ritual, associated in his imagination from childhood with
all that is most sublime and endearing, than to him whose morose and
litigious mind was always devising frivolous objections to innocent and
salutary usages? But, in truth, the scrupulosity of the Puritan was not
that sort of scrupulosity which the Apostle had commanded believers to
respect. It sprang, not from morbid tenderness of conscience, but from
censoriousness and spiritual pride; and none who had studied the New
Testament could have failed to observe that, while we are charged
carefully to avoid whatever may give scandal to the feeble, we are
taught by divine precept and example to make no concession to the
supercilious and uncharitable Pharisee. Was every thing which was not of
the essence of religion to be given up as soon as it became unpleasing
to a knot of zealots whose heads had been turned by conceit and the love
of novelty? Painted glass, music, holidays, fast days, were not of the
essence of religion. Were the windows of King's College Chapel to be
broken at the demand of one set of fanatics? Was the organ of Exeter
to be silenced to please another? Were all the village bells to be mute
because Tribulation Wholesome and Deacon Ananias thought them profane?
Was Christmas no longer to be a day of rejoicing? Was Passion week no
longer to be a season of humiliation? These changes, it is true, were
not yet proposed. Put if,--so the High Churchmen reasoned,--we once
admit that what is harmless and edifying is to be given up because it
offends some narrow understandings and some gloomy tempers, where are
we to stop? And is it not probable that, by thus attempting to heal one
schism, we may cause another? All those things which the Puritans regard
as the blemishes of the Church are by a large part of the population
reckoned among her attractions. May she not, in ceasing to give scandal
to a few sour precisians, cease also to influence the hearts of many
who now delight in her ordinances? Is it not to be apprehended that, for
every proselyte whom she allures from the meeting house, ten of her old
disciples may turn away from her maimed rites and dismantled temples,
and that these new separatists may either form themselves into a
sect far more formidable than the sect which we are now seeking to
conciliate, or may, in the violence of their disgust at a cold and
ignoble worship, be tempted to join in the solemn and gorgeous idolatry
of Rome?
It is remarkable that those who held this language were by no means
disposed to contend for the doctrinal Articles of the Church. The truth
is that, from the time of James the First, that great party which has
been peculiarly zealous for the Anglican polity and the Anglican ritual
has always leaned strongly towards Arminianism, and has therefore never
been much attached to a confession of faith framed by reformers who, on
questions of metaphysical divinity, generally agreed with Calvin. One of
the characteristic marks of that party is the disposition which it has
always shown to appeal, on points of dogmatic theology, rather to the
Liturgy, which was derived from Rome, than to the Articles and Homilies,
which were derived from Geneva. The Calvinistic members of the Church,
on the other hand, have always maintained that her deliberate judgment
on such points is much more likely to be found in an Article or a Homily
than in an ejaculation of penitence or a hymn of thanksgiving. It does
not appear that, in the debates on the Comprehension Bill, a single High
Churchman raised his voice against the clause which relieved the clergy
from the necessity of subscribing the Articles, and of declaring the
doctrine contained in the Homilies to be sound. Nay, the Declaration
which, in the original draught, was substituted for the Articles, was
much softened down on the report. As the clause finally stood, the
ministers of the Church were required to declare, not that they approved
of her constitution, but merely that they submitted to it. Had the bill
become law, the only people in the kingdom who would have been under
the necessity of signing the Articles would have been the dissenting
preachers. [88]
The easy manner in which the zealous friends of the Church gave up her
confession of faith presents a striking contrast to the spirit with
which they struggled for her polity and her ritual. The clause which
admitted Presbyterian ministers to hold benefices without episcopal
ordination was rejected. The clause which permitted scrupulous persons
to communicate sitting very narrowly escaped the same fate. In the
Committee it was struck out, and, on the report, was with great
difficulty restored. The majority of peers in the House was against the
proposed indulgence, and the scale was but just turned by the proxies.
But by this time it began to appear that the bill which the High
Churchmen were so keenly assailing was menaced by dangers from a very
different quarter. The same considerations which had induced Nottingham
to support a comprehension made comprehension an object of dread and
aversion to a large body of dissenters. The truth is that the time
for such a scheme had gone by. If, a hundred years earlier, when the
division in the Protestant body was recent, Elizabeth had been so wise
as to abstain from requiring the observance of a few forms which a
large part of her subjects considered as Popish, she might perhaps have
averted those fearful calamities which, forty years after her death,
afflicted the Church. But the general tendency of schism is to widen.
Had Leo the Tenth, when the exactions and impostures of the Pardoners
first roused the indignation of Saxony, corrected those evil practices
with a vigorous hand, it is not improbable that Luther would have died
in the bosom of the Church of Rome. But the opportunity was suffered
to escape; and, when, a few years later, the Vatican would gladly
have purchased peace by yielding the original subject of quarrel, the
original subject of quarrel was almost forgotten. The inquiring spirit
which had been roused by a single abuse had discovered or imagined a
thousand: controversies engendered controversies: every attempt that
was made to accommodate one dispute ended by producing another; and
at length a General Council, which, during the earlier stages of the
distemper, had been supposed to be an infallible remedy, made the case
utterly hopeless. In this respect, as in many others, the history
of Puritanism in England bears a close analogy to the history of
Protestantism in Europe. The Parliament of 1689 could no more put an end
to nonconformity by tolerating a garb or a posture than the Doctors
of Trent could have reconciled the Teutonic nations to the Papacy by
regulating the sale of indulgences. In the sixteenth century Quakerism
was unknown; and there was not in the whole realm a single congregation
of Independents or Baptists. At the time of the Revolution, the
Independents, Baptists, and Quakers were a majority of the dissenting
body; and these sects could not be gained over on any terms which
the lowest of Low Churchmen would have been willing to offer. The
Independent held that a national Church, governed by any central
authority whatever, Pope, Patriarch, King, Bishop, or Synod, was an
unscriptural institution, and that every congregation of believers
was, under Christ, a sovereign society. The Baptist was even
more irreclaimable than the Independent, and the Quaker even more
irreclaimable than the Baptist. Concessions, therefore, which would once
have extinguished nonconformity would not now satisfy even one half
of the nonconformists; and it was the obvious interest of every
nonconformist whom no concession would satisfy that none of his brethren
should be satisfied. The more liberal the terms of comprehension, the
greater was the alarm of every separatist who knew that he could, in no
case, be comprehended. There was but slender hope that the dissenters,
unbroken and acting as one man, would be able to obtain from the
legislature full admission to civil privileges; and all hope of
obtaining such admission must be relinquished if Nottingham should,
by the help of some wellmeaning but shortsighted friends of religious
liberty, be enabled to accomplish his design. If his bill passed, there
would doubtless be a considerable defection from the dissenting
body; and every defection must be severely felt by a class already
outnumbered, depressed, and struggling against powerful enemies. Every
proselyte too must be reckoned twice over, as a loss to the party which
was even now too weak, and as a gain to the party which was even now too
strong. The Church was but too well able to hold her own against all the
sects in the kingdom; and, if those sects were to be thinned by a large
desertion, and the Church strengthened by a large reinforcement, it was
plain that all chance of obtaining any relaxation of the Test Act would
be at an end; and it was but too probable that the Toleration Act might
not long remain unrepealed.
Even those Presbyterian ministers whose scruples the Comprehension Bill
was expressly intended to remove were by no means unanimous in wishing
it to pass. The ablest and most eloquent preachers among them had, since
the Declaration of Indulgence had appeared, been very agreeably settled
in the capital and in other large towns, and were now about to enjoy,
under the sure guarantee of an Act of Parliament, that toleration which,
under the Declaration of Indulgence, had been illicit and precarious.
The situation of these men was such as the great majority of the divines
of the Established Church might well envy. Few indeed of the parochial
clergy were so abundantly supplied with comforts as the favourite
orator of a great assembly of nonconformists in the City. The voluntary
contributions of his wealthy hearers, Aldermen and Deputies, West India
merchants and Turkey merchants, Wardens of the Company of Fishmongers
and Wardens of the Company of Goldsmiths, enabled him to become a
landowner or a mortgagee. The best broadcloth from Blackwell Hall, and
the best poultry from Leadenhall Market, were frequently left at his
door. His influence over his flock was immense. Scarcely any member of
a congregation of separatists entered into a partnership, married a
daughter, put a son out as apprentice, or gave his vote at an election,
without consulting his spiritual guide. On all political and literary
questions the minister was the oracle of his own circle. It was
popularly remarked, during many years, that an eminent dissenting
minister had only to make his son an attorney or a physician; that the
attorney was sure to have clients, and the physician to have patients.
While a waiting woman was generally considered as a help meet for
a chaplain in holy orders of the Established Church, the widows and
daughters of opulent citizens were supposed to belong in a peculiar
manner to nonconformist pastors. One of the great Presbyterian Rabbies,
therefore, might well doubt whether, in a worldly view, he should
be benefited by a comprehension. He might indeed hold a rectory or
a vicarage, when he could get one. But in the meantime he would be
destitute: his meeting house would be closed: his congregation would be
dispersed among the parish churches: if a benefice were bestowed on him,
it would probably be a very slender compensation for the income which
he had lost. Nor could he hope to have, as a minister of the Anglican
Church, the authority and dignity which he had hitherto enjoyed. He
would always, by a large portion of the members of that Church, be
regarded as a deserter. He might therefore, on the whole, very naturally
wish to be left where he was. [89]
There was consequently a division in the Whig party. One section of that
party was for relieving the dissenters from the Test Act, and giving
up the Comprehension Bill. Another section was for pushing forward
the Comprehension Bill, and postponing to a more convenient time the
consideration of the Test Act. The effect of this division among the
friends of religious liberty was that the High Churchmen, though a
minority in the House of Commons, and not a majority in the House of
Lords, were able to oppose with success both the reforms which they
dreaded. The Comprehension Bill was not passed; and the Test Act was not
repealed.
Just at the moment when the question of the Test and the question of the
Comprehension became complicated together in a manner which might well
perplex an enlightened and honest politician, both questions became
complicated with a third question of grave importance.
The ancient oaths of allegiance and supremacy contained some expressions
which had always been disliked by the Whigs, and other expressions which
Tories, honestly attached to the new settlement, thought inapplicable to
princes who had not the hereditary right. The Convention had therefore,
while the throne was still vacant, framed those oaths of allegiance and
supremacy by which we still testify our loyalty to our Sovereign. By the
Act which turned the Convention into a Parliament, the members of both
Houses were required to take the new oaths. As to other persons in
public trust, it was hard to say how the law stood. One form of words
was enjoined by statutes, regularly passed, and not yet regularly
abrogated. A different form was enjoined by the Declaration of Right, an
instrument which was indeed revolutionary and irregular, but which might
well be thought equal in authority to any statute. The practice was in
as much confusion as the law. It was therefore felt to be necessary that
the legislature should, without delay, pass an Act abolishing the old
oaths, and determining when and by whom the new oaths should be taken.
The bill which settled this important question originated in the Upper
House. As to most of the provisions there was little room for dispute.
It was unanimously agreed that no person should, at any future time, be
admitted to any office, civil, military, ecclesiastical, or academical,
without taking the oaths to William and Mary. It was also unanimously
agreed that every person who already held any civil or military office
should be ejected from it, unless he took the oaths on or before the
first of August 1689. But the strongest passions of both parties
were excited by the question whether persons who already possessed
ecclesiastical or academical offices should be required to swear fealty
to the King and Queen on pain of deprivation. None could say what might
be the effect of a law enjoining all the members of a great, a powerful,
a sacred profession to make, under the most solemn sanction of
religion, a declaration which might be plausibly represented as a formal
recantation of all that they had been writing and preaching during many
years. The Primate and some of the most eminent Bishops had already
absented themselves from Parliament, and would doubtless relinquish
their palaces and revenues, rather than acknowledge the new Sovereigns.
The example of these great prelates might perhaps be followed by
a multitude of divines of humbler rank, by hundreds of canons,
prebendaries, and fellows of colleges, by thousands of parish priests.
To such an event no Tory, however clear his own conviction that he might
lawfully swear allegiance to the King who was in possession, could
look forward without the most painful emotions of compassion for the
sufferers and of anxiety for the Church.
There were some persons who went so far as to deny that the Parliament
was competent to pass a law requiring a Bishop to swear on pain of
deprivation. No earthly power, they said, could break the tie which
bound the successor of the apostles to his diocese. What God had joined
no man could sunder. Dings and senates might scrawl words on parchment
or impress figures on wax; but those words and figures could no more
change the course of the spiritual than the course of the physical
world. As the Author of the universe had appointed a certain order,
according to which it was His pleasure to send winter and summer,
seedtime and harvest, so He had appointed a certain order, according to
which He communicated His grace to His Catholic Church; and the latter
order was, like the former, independent of the powers and principalities
of the world. A legislature might alter the flames of the months, might
call June December, and December June; but, in spite of the legislature,
the snow would fall when the sun was in Capricorn, and the flowers would
bloom when he was in Cancer. And so the legislature might enact that
Ferguson or Muggleton should live in the palace at Lambeth, should sit
on the throne of Augustin, should be called Your Grace, and should
walk in processions before the Premier Duke; but, in spite of the
legislature, Sancroft would, while Sancroft lived, be the only true
Archbishop of Canterbury; and the person who should presume to usurp the
archiepiscopal functions would be a schismatic. This doctrine was proved
by reasons drawn from the budding of Aaron's rod, and from a certain
plate which Saint James the Less, according to a legend of the fourth
century, used to wear on his forehead. A Greek manuscript, relating
to the deprivation of bishops, was discovered, about this time, in the
Bodleian Library, and became the subject of a furious controversy. One
party held that God had wonderfully brought this precious volume to
light, for the guidance of His Church at a most critical moment. The
other party wondered that any importance could be attached to the
nonsense of a nameless scribbler of the thirteenth century. Much was
written about the deprivations of Chrysostom and Photius, of Nicolaus
Mysticus and Cosmas Atticus. But the case of Abiathar, whom Solomon put
out of the sacerdotal office for treason, was discussed with peculiar
eagerness. No small quantity of learning and ingenuity was expended
in the attempt to prove that Abiathar, though he wore the ephod and
answered by Urim, was not really High Priest, that he ministered
only when his superior Zadoc was incapacitated by sickness or by some
ceremonial pollution, and that therefore the act of Solomon was not a
precedent which would warrant King William in deposing a real Bishop.
[90]
But such reasoning as this, though backed by copious citations from the
Misna and Maimonides, was not generally satisfactory even to zealous
churchmen. For it admitted of one answer, short, but perfectly
intelligible to a plain man who knew nothing about Greek fathers or
Levitical genealogies. There might be some doubt whether King Solomon
had ejected a high priest; but there could be no doubt at all that Queen
Elizabeth had ejected the Bishops of more than half the sees in England.
It was notorious that fourteen prelates had, without any proceeding in
any spiritual court, been deprived by Act of Parliament for refusing to
acknowledge her supremacy. Had that deprivation been null? Had Bonner
continued to be, to the end of his life, the only true Bishop of
London? Had his successor been an usurper? Had Parker and Jewel been
schismatics? Had the Convocation of 1562, that Convocation which had
finally settled the doctrine of the Church of England, been itself out
of the pale of the Church of Christ? Nothing could be more ludicrous
than the distress of those controversialists who had to invent a plea
for Elizabeth which should not be also a plea for William. Some zealots,
indeed, gave up the vain attempt to distingush between two cases which
every man of common sense perceived to be undistinguishable, and frankly
owned that the deprivations of 1559 could not be justified. But no
person, it was said, ought to be troubled in mind on that account; for,
though the Church of England might once have been schismatical, she had
become Catholic when the Bishops deprived by Elizabeth had ceased to
live. [91] The Tories, however, were not generally disposed to admit
that the religious society to which they were fondly attached had
originated in an unlawful breach of unity. They therefore took ground
lower and more tenable. They argued the question as a question of
humanity and of expediency. They spoke much of the debt of gratitude
which the nation owed to the priesthood; of the courage and fidelity
with which the order, from the primate down to the youngest deacon,
had recently defended the civil and ecclesiastical constitution of the
realm; of the memorable Sunday when, in all the hundred churches of the
capital, scarcely one slave could be found to read the Declaration of
Indulgence; of the Black Friday when, amidst the blessings and the loud
weeping of a mighty population, the barge of the seven prelates passed
through the watergate of the Tower. The firmness with which the clergy
had lately, in defiance of menace and of seduction, done what they
conscientiously believed to be right, had saved the liberty and religion
of England. Was no indulgence to be granted to them if they now refused
to do what they conscientiously apprehended to be wrong? And where, it
was said, is the danger of treating them with tenderness? Nobody is so
absurd as to propose that they shall be permitted to plot against
the Government, or to stir up the multitude to insurrection. They are
amenable to the law, like other men. If they are guilty of treason, let
them be hanged. If they are guilty of sedition, let them be fined and
imprisoned. If they omit, in their public ministrations, to pray for
King William, for Queen Mary, and for the Parliament assembled under
those most religious sovereigns, let the penal clauses of the Act of
Uniformity be put in force. If this be not enough, let his Majesty be
empowered to tender the oaths to any clergyman; and, if the oaths so
tendered are refused, let deprivation follow. In this way any nonjuring
bishop or rector who may be suspected, though he cannot be legally
convicted, of intriguing, of writing, of talking, against the present
settlement, may be at once removed from his office. But why insist on
ejecting a pious and laborious minister of religion, who never lifts a
finger or utters a word against the government, and who, as often as
he performs morning and evening service, prays from his heart for a
blessing on the rulers set over him by Providence, but who will not take
an oath which seems to him to imply a right in the people to depose a
sovereign? Surely we do all that is necessary if we leave men of this
sort to the mercy of the very prince to whom they refuse to swear
fidelity. If he is willing to bear with their scrupulosity, if he
considers them, notwithstanding their prejudices, as innocent and useful
members of society, who else can be entitled to complain?
The Whigs were vehement on the other side. They scrutinised, with
ingenuity sharpened by hatred, the claims of the clergy to the public
gratitude, and sometimes went so far as altogether to deny that the
order had in the preceding year deserved well of the nation. It was true
that bishops and priests had stood up against the tyranny of the late
King: but it was equally true that, but for the obstinacy with which
they had opposed the Exclusion Bill, he never would have been King, and
that, but for their adulation and their doctrine of passive obedience,
he would never have ventured to be guilty of such tyranny. Their chief
business, during a quarter of a century, had been to teach the people
to cringe and the prince to domineer. They were guilty of the blood of
Russell, of Sidney, of every brave and honest Englishman who had been
put to death for attempting to save the realm from Popery and despotism.
Never had they breathed a whisper against arbitrary power till arbitrary
power began to menace their own property and dignity. Then, no doubt,
forgetting all their old commonplaces about submitting to Nero, they had
made haste to save themselves. Grant,--such was the cry of these
eager disputants,--grant that, in saving themselves, they saved the
constitution. Are we therefore to forget that they had previously
endangered it? And are we to reward them by now permitting them to
destroy it? Here is a class of men closely connected with the state.
A large part of the produce of the soil has been assigned to them for
their maintenance. Their chiefs have seats in the legislature, wide
domains, stately palaces. By this privileged body the great mass of the
population is lectured every week from the chair of authority. To this
privileged body has been committed the supreme direction of liberal
education. Oxford and Cambridge, Westminster, Winchester, and Eton, are
under priestly government. By the priesthood will to a great extent be
formed the character of the nobility and gentry of the next generation.
Of the higher clergy some have in their gift numerous and valuable
benefices; others have the privilege of appointing judges who decide
grave questions affecting the liberty, the property, the reputation of
their Majesties' subjects. And is an order thus favoured by the state
to give no guarantee to the state? On what principle can it be contended
that it is unnecessary to ask from an Archbishop of Canterbury or from
a Bishop of Durham that promise of fidelity to the government which all
allow that it is necessary to demand from every layman who serves the
Crown in the humblest office. Every exciseman, every collector of the
customs, who refuses to swear, is to be deprived of his bread. For these
humble martyrs of passive obedience and hereditary right nobody has a
word to say. Yet an ecclesiastical magnate who refuses to swear is to
be suffered to retain emoluments, patronage, power, equal to those of a
great minister of state. It is said that it is superfluous to impose the
oaths on a clergyman, because he may be punished if he breaks the laws.
Why is not the same argument urged in favour of the layman? And why, if
the clergyman really means to observe the laws, does he scruple to take
the oaths? The law commands him to designate William and Mary as King
and Queen, to do this in the most sacred place, to do this in the
administration of the most solemn of all the rites of religion. The
law commands him to pray that the illustrious pair may be defended by
a special providence, that they may be victorious over every enemy,
and that their Parliament may by divine guidance be led to take such a
course as may promote their safety, honour, and welfare. Can we believe
that his conscience will suffer him to do all this, and yet will not
suffer him to promise that he will be a faithful subject to them?
To the proposition that the nonjuring clergy should be left to the mercy
of the King, the Whigs, with some justice, replied that no scheme could
be devised more unjust to his Majesty. The matter, they said, is one of
public concern, one in which every Englishman who is unwilling to be the
slave of France and of Rome has a deep interest. In such a case it
would be unworthy of the Estates of the Realm to shrink from the
responsibility of providing for the common safety, to try to obtain for
themselves the praise of tenderness and liberality, and to leave to the
Sovereign the odious task of proscription. A law requiring all public
functionaries, civil, military, ecclesiastical, without distinction of
persons, to take the oaths is at least equal. It excludes all suspicion
of partiality, of personal malignity, of secret shying and talebearing.
But, if an arbitrary discretion is left to the Government, if one
nonjuring priest is suffered to keep a lucrative benefice while another
is turned with his wife and children into the street, every ejection
will be considered as an act of cruelty, and will be imputed as a crime
to the sovereign and his ministers. [92]
Thus the Parliament had to decide, at the same moment, what quantity
of relief should be granted to the consciences of dissenters, and what
quantity of pressure should be applied to the consciences of the clergy
of the Established Church. The King conceived a hope that it might be in
his power to effect a compromise agreeable to all parties. He flattered
himself that the Tories might be induced to make some concession to
the dissenters, on condition that the Whigs would be lenient to the
Jacobites. He determined to try what his personal intervention would
effect. It chanced that, a few hours after the Lords had read the
Comprehension Bill a second time and the Bill touching the Oaths a first
time, he had occasion to go down to Parliament for the purpose of giving
his assent to a law. From the throne he addressed both Houses, and
expressed an earnest wish that they would consent to modify the existing
laws in such a manner that all Protestants might be admitted to public
employment. [93] It was well understood that he was willing, if the
legislature would comply with his request, to let clergymen who were
already beneficed continue to hold their benefices without swearing
allegiance to him. His conduct on this occasion deserves undoubtedly the
praise of disinterestedness. It is honourable to him that he attempted
to purchase liberty of conscience for his subjects by giving up a
safeguard of his own crown. But it must be acknowledged that he showed
less wisdom than virtue. The only Englishman in his Privy Council
whom he had consulted, if Burnet was correctly informed, was Richard
Hampden; [94] and Richard Hampden, though a highly respectable man, was
so far from being able to answer for the Whig party that he could not
answer even for his own son John, whose temper, naturally vindictive,
had been exasperated into ferocity by the stings of remorse and shame.
The King soon found that there was in the hatred of the two great
factions an energy which was wanting to their love. The Whigs, though
they were almost unanimous in thinking that the Sacramental Test ought
to be abolished, were by no means unanimous in thinking that moment well
chosen for the abolition; and even those Whigs who were most desirous
to see the nonconformists relieved without delay from civil disabilities
were fully determined not to forego the opportunity of humbling and
punishing the class to whose instrumentality chiefly was to be ascribed
that tremendous reflux of public feeling which had followed the
dissolution of the Oxford Parliament. To put the Janes, the Souths, the
Sherlocks into such a situation that they must either starve, or recant,
publicly, and with the Gospel at their lips, all the ostentatious
professions of many years, was a revenge too delicious to be
relinquished. The Tory, on the other hand, sincerely respected and
pitied those clergymen who felt scruples about the oaths. But the Test
was, in his view, essential to the safety of the established religion,
and must not be surrendered for the purpose of saving any man however
eminent from any hardship however serious. It would be a sad day
doubtless for the Church when the episcopal bench, the chapter houses
of cathedrals, the halls of colleges, would miss some men renowned for
piety and learning. But it would be a still sadder day for the Church
when an Independent should bear the white staff or a Baptist sit on the
woolsack. Each party tried to serve those for whom it was interested:
but neither party would consent to grant favourable terms to its
enemies. The result was that the nonconformists remained excluded from
office in the State, and the nonjurors were ejected from office in the
Church.
In the House of Commons, no member thought it expedient to propose the
repeal of the Test Act. But leave was given to bring in a bill repealing
the Corporation Act, which had been passed by the Cavalier Parliament
soon after the Restoration, and which contained a clause requiring all
municipal magistrates to receive the sacrament according to the forms of
the Church of England. When this bill was about to be committed, it was
moved by the Tories that the committee should be instructed to make
no alteration in the law touching the sacrament. Those Whigs who were
zealous for the Comprehension must have been placed by this motion in
an embarrassing position. To vote for the instruction would have been
inconsistent with their principles. To vote against it would have been
to break with Nottingham. A middle course was found. The adjournment
of the debate was moved and carried by a hundred and sixteen votes to a
hundred and fourteen; and the subject was not revived. [95] In the House
of Lords a motion was made for the abolition of the sacramental test,
but was rejected by a large majority. Many of those who thought the
motion right in principle thought it ill timed. A protest was entered;
but it was signed only by a few peers of no great authority. It is a
remarkable fact that two great chiefs of the Whig party, who were in
general very attentive to their parliamentary duty, Devonshire and
Shrewsbury, absented themselves on this occasion. [96]
The debate on the Test in the Upper House was speedily followed by a
debate on the last clause of the Comprehension Bill. By that clause it
was provided that thirty Bishops and priests should be commissioned
to revise the liturgy and canons, and to suggest amendments. On this
subject the Whig peers were almost all of one mind. They mustered
strong, and spoke warmly. Why, they asked, were none but members of the
sacerdotal order to be intrusted with this duty? Were the laity no
part of the Church of England? When the Commission should have made its
report, laymen would have to decide on the recommendations contained in
that report. Not a line of the Book of Common Prayer could be altered
but by the authority of King, Lords, and Commons. The King was a layman.
Five sixths of the Lords were laymen. All the members of the House
of Commons were laymen. Was it not absurd to say that laymen were
incompetent to examine into a matter which it was acknowledged that
laymen must in the last resort determine? And could any thing be more
opposite to the whole spirit of Protestantism than the notion that a
certain preternatural power of judging in spiritual cases was vouchsafed
to a particular caste, and to that caste alone; that such men as Selden,
as Hale, as Boyle, were less competent to give an opinion on a collect
or a creed than the youngest and silliest chaplain who, in a remote
manor house, passed his life in drinking ale and playing at shovelboard?
What God had instituted no earthly power, lay or clerical, could
alter: and of things instituted by human beings a layman was surely as
competent as a clergyman to judge. That the Anglican liturgy and
canons were of purely human institution the Parliament acknowledged by
referring them to a Commission for revision and correction. How could
it then be maintained that in such a Commission the laity, so vast a
majority of the population, the laity, whose edification was the main
end of all ecclesiastical regulations, and whose innocent tastes ought
to be carefully consulted in the framing of the public services of
religion, ought not to have a single representative? Precedent was
directly opposed to this odious distinction. Repeatedly since the light
of reformation had dawned on England Commissioners had been empowered
by law to revise the canons; and on every one of those occasions some
of the Commissioners had been laymen. In the present case the proposed
arrangement was peculiarly objectionable. For the object of issuing the
commission was the conciliating of dissenters; and it was therefore most
desirable that the Commissioners should be men in whose fairness and
moderation dissenters could confide. Would thirty such men be easily
found in the higher ranks of the clerical profession? The duty of
the legislature was to arbitrate between two contending parties, the
Nonconformist divines and the Anglican divines, and it would be the
grossest injustice to commit to one of those parties the office of
umpire.
On these grounds the Whigs proposed an amendment to the effect that
laymen should be joined with clergymen in the Commission. The contest
was sharp. Burnet, who had just taken his seat among the peers, and who
seems to have been bent on winning at almost any price the good will of
his brethren, argued with all his constitutional warmth for the clause
as it stood. The numbers on the division proved to be exactly equal. The
consequence was that, according to the rules of the House, the amendment
was lost. [97]
At length the Comprehension Bill was sent down to the Commons. There it
would easily have been carried by two to one, if it had been supported
by all the friends of religious liberty. But on this subject the High
Churchmen could count on the support of a large body of Low Churchmen.
Those members who wished well to Nottingham's plan saw that they were
outnumbered, and, despairing of a victory, began to meditate a
retreat. Just at this time a suggestion was thrown out which united all
suffrages. The ancient usage was that a Convocation should be summoned
together with a Parliament; and it might well be argued that, if ever
the advice of a Convocation could be needed, it must be when changes in
the ritual and discipline of the Church were under consideration. But,
in consequence of the irregular manner in which the Estates of the Realm
had been brought together during the vacancy of the throne, there was
no Convocation. It was proposed that the House should advise the King
to take measures for supplying this defect, and that the fate of the
Comprehension Bill should not be decided till the clergy had had
an opportunity of declaring their opinion through the ancient and
legitimate organ.
This proposition was received with general acclamation. The Tories were
well pleased to see such honour done to the priesthood. Those Whigs who
were against the Comprehension Bill were well pleased to see it laid
aside, certainly for a year, probably for ever. Those Whigs who were
for the Comprehension Bill were well pleased to escape without a
defeat. Many of them indeed were not without hopes that mild and
liberal counsels might prevail in the ecclesiastical senate. An address
requesting William to summon the Convocation was voted without a
division: the concurrence of the Lords was asked: the Lords concurred,
the address was carried up to the throne by both Houses: the King
promised that he would, at a convenient season, do what his Parliament
desired; and Nottingham's Bill was not again mentioned.
Many writers, imperfectly acquainted with the history of that age,
have inferred from these proceedings that the House of Commons was an
assembly of High Churchmen: but nothing is more certain than that two
thirds of the members were either Low Churchmen or not Churchmen at
all. A very few days before this time an occurrence had taken place,
unimportant in itself, but highly significant as an indication of the
temper of the majority. It had been suggested that the House ought, in
conformity with ancient usage, to adjourn over the Easter holidays. The
Puritans and Latitudinarians objected: there was a sharp debate: the
High Churchmen did not venture to divide; and, to the great scandal of
many grave persons, the Speaker took the chair at nine o'clock on Easter
Monday; and there was a long and busy sitting. [98]
This however was by no means the strongest proof which the Commons gave
that they were far indeed from feeling extreme reverence or tenderness
for the Anglican hierarchy. The bill for settling the oaths had just
come down from the Lords framed in a manner favourable to the clergy.
All lay functionaries were required to swear fealty to the King and
Queen on pain of expulsion from office. But it was provided that every
divine who already held a benefice might continue to hold it without
swearing, unless the Government should see reason to call on him
specially for an assurance of his loyalty. Burnett had, partly,
no doubt, from the goodnature and generosity which belonged to his
character, and partly from a desire to conciliate his brethren,
supported this arrangement in the Upper House with great energy. But
in the Lower House the feeling against the Jacobite priests was
irresistibly strong. On the very day on which that House voted, without
a division, the address requesting the King to summon the Convocation, a
clause was proposed and carried which required every person who held any
ecclesiastical or academical preferment to take the oaths by the first
of August 1689, on pain of suspension. Six months, to be reckoned from
that day, were allowed to the nonjuror for reconsideration. If, on
the first of February 1690, he still continued obstinate, he was to be
finally deprived.
The bill, thus amended, was sent back to the Lords. The Lords adhered
to their original resolution. Conference after conference was held.
Compromise after compromise was suggested. From the imperfect reports
which have come down to us it appears that every argument in favour of
lenity was forcibly urged by Burnet. But the Commons were firm: time
pressed: the unsettled state of the law caused inconvenience in every
department of the public service; and the peers very reluctantly gave
way. They at the same time added a clause empowering the King to bestow
pecuniary allowances out of the forfeited benefices on a few nonjuring
clergymen. The number of clergymen thus favoured was not to exceed
twelve. The allowance was not to exceed one third of the income
forfeited. Some zealous Whigs were unwilling to grant even this
indulgence: but the Commons were content with the victory which they had
won, and justly thought that it would be ungracious to refuse so slight
a concession. [99]
These debates were interrupted, during a short time, by the festivities
and solemnities of the Coronation. When the day fixed for that great
ceremony drew near, the House of Commons resolved itself into a
committee for the purpose of settling the form of words in which our
Sovereigns were thenceforward to enter into covenant with the nation.
All parties were agreed as to the propriety of requiring the King to
swear that, in temporal matters, he would govern according to law, and
would execute justice in mercy. But about the terms of the oath which
related to the spiritual institutions of the realm there was much
debate. Should the chief magistrate promise simply to maintain the
Protestant religion established by law, or should he promise to maintain
that religion as it should be hereafter established by law? The majority
preferred the former phrase. The latter phrase was preferred by those
Whigs who were for a Comprehension. But it was universally admitted that
the two phrases really meant the same thing, and that the oath, however
it might be worded, would bind the Sovereign in his executive capacity
only. This was indeed evident from the very nature of the transaction.
Any compact may be annulled by the free consent of the party who alone
is entitled to claim the performance. It was never doubted by the most
rigid casuist that a debtor, who has bound himself under the most
awful imprecations to pay a debt, may lawfully withhold payment if the
creditor is willing to cancel the obligation. And it is equally clear
that no assurance, exacted from a King by the Estates of his kingdom,
can bind him to refuse compliance with what may at a future time be the
wish of those Estates.
A bill was drawn up in conformity with the resolutions of the Committee,
and was rapidly passed through every stage. After the third reading, a
foolish man stood up to propose a rider, declaring that the oath was
not meant to restrain the Sovereign from consenting to any change in the
ceremonial of the Church, provided always that episcopacy and a written
form of prayer were retained. The gross absurdity of this motion was
exposed by several eminent members. Such a clause, they justly remarked,
would bind the King under pretence of setting him free. The coronation
oath, they said, was never intended to trammel him in his legislative
capacity. Leave that oath as it is now drawn, and no prince can
misunderstand it. No prince can seriously imagine that the two Houses
mean to exact from him a promise that he will put a Veto on laws which
they may hereafter think necessary to the wellbeing of the country.
Or if any prince should so strangely misapprehend the nature of the
contract between him and his subjects, any divine, any lawyer, to whose
advice he may have recourse, will set his mind at ease. But if this
rider should pass, it will be impossible to deny that the coronation
oath is meant to prevent the King from giving his assent to bills which
may be presented to him by the Lords and Commons; and the most serious
inconvenience may follow. These arguments were felt to be unanswerable,
and the proviso was rejected without a division, [100]
Every person who has read these debates must be fully convinced that the
statesmen who framed the coronation oath did not mean to bind the King
in his legislative capacity, [101] Unhappily, more than a hundred
years later, a scruple, which those statesmen thought too absurd to be
seriously entertained by any human being, found its way into a mind,
honest, indeed, and religious, but narrow and obstinate by nature, and
at once debilitated and excited by disease. Seldom, indeed, have the
ambition and perfidy of tyrants produced evils greater than those
which were brought on our country by that fatal conscientiousness. A
conjuncture singularly auspicious, a conjuncture at which wisdom and
justice might perhaps have reconciled races and sects long hostile,
and might have made the British islands one truly United Kingdom, was
suffered to pass away. The opportunity, once lost, returned no more. Two
generations of public men have since laboured with imperfect success
to repair the error which was then committed; nor is it improbable that
some of the penalties of that error may continue to afflict a remote
posterity.
The Bill by which the oath was settled passed the Upper House without
amendment. All the preparations were complete; and, on the eleventh
of April, the coronation took place. In some things it differed from
ordinary coronations. The representatives of the people attended the
ceremony in a body, and were sumptuously feasted in the Exchequer
Chamber. Mary, being not merely Queen Consort, but also Queen Regnant,
was inaugurated in all things like a King, was girt with the sword,
lifted up into the throne, and presented with the Bible, the spurs, and
the orb. Of the temporal grandees of the realm, and of their wives and
daughters, the muster was great and splendid. None could be surprised
that the Whig aristocracy should swell the triumph of Whig principles.
But the Jacobites saw, with concern, that many Lords who had voted for a
Regency bore a conspicuous part in the ceremonial. The King's crown
was carried by Grafton, the Queen's by Somerset. The pointed sword,
emblematical of temporal justice, was borne by Pembroke. Ormond was Lord
High Constable for the day, and rode up the Hall on the right hand
of the hereditary champion, who thrice flung down his glove on the
pavement, and thrice defied to mortal combat the false traitor who
should gainsay the title of William and Mary. Among the noble damsels
who supported the gorgeous train of the Queen was her beautiful and
gentle cousin, the Lady Henrietta Hyde, whose father, Rochester, had
to the last contended against the resolution which declared the throne
vacant, [102] The show of Bishops, indeed, was scanty. The Primate did
not make his appearance; and his place was supplied by Compton. On one
side of Compton, the paten was carried by Lloyd, Bishop of Saint Asaph,
eminent among the seven confessors of the preceding year. On the
other side, Sprat, Bishop of Rochester, lately a member of the High
Commission, had charge of the chalice. Burnet, the junior prelate,
preached with all his wonted ability, and more than his wonted taste
and judgment. His grave and eloquent discourse was polluted neither by
adulation nor by malignity. He is said to have been greatly applauded;
and it may well be believed that the animated peroration in which he
implored heaven to bless the royal pair with long life and mutual love,
with obedient subjects, wise counsellors, and faithful allies, with
gallant fleets and armies, with victory, with peace, and finally with
crowns more glorious and more durable than those which then glittered
on the altar of the Abbey, drew forth the loudest hums of the Commons,
[103]
On the whole the ceremony went off well, and produced something like
a revival, faint, indeed, and transient, of the enthusiasm of the
preceding December. The day was, in London and in many other places, a
day of general rejoicing. The churches were filled in the morning: the
afternoon was spent in sport and carousing; and at night bonfires were
lighted, rockets discharged, and windows lighted up. The Jacobites
however contrived to discover or to invent abundant matter for
scurrility and sarcasm. They complained bitterly, that the way from the
hall to the western door of the Abbey had been lined by Dutch soldiers.
Was it seemly that an English king should enter into the most solemn
of engagements with the English nation behind a triple hedge of foreign
swords and bayonets? Little affrays, such as, at every great pageant,
almost inevitably take place between those who are eager to see the show
and those whose business it is to keep the communications clear,
were exaggerated with all the artifices of rhetoric. One of the alien
mercenaries had backed his horse against an honest citizen who pressed
forward to catch a glimpse of the royal canopy. Another had rudely
pushed back a woman with the but end of his musket. On such grounds as
these the strangers were compared to those Lord Danes whose insolence,
in the old time, had provoked the Anglo-saxon population to insurrection
and massacre. But there was no more fertile theme for censure than
the coronation medal, which really was absurd in design and mean in
execution. A chariot appeared conspicuous on the reverse; and plain
people were at a loss to understand what this emblem had to do with
William and Mary. The disaffected wits solved the difficulty by
suggesting that the artist meant to allude to that chariot which a
Roman princess, lost to all filial affection, and blindly devoted to the
interests of an ambitious husband, drove over the still warm remains of
her father, [104]
Honours were, as usual, liberally bestowed at this festive season. Three
garters which happened to be at the disposal of the Crown were given
to Devonshire, Ormond, and Schomberg. Prince George was created Duke of
Cumberland. Several eminent men took new appellations by which they
must henceforth be designated. Danby became Marquess of Caermarthen,
Churchill Earl of Marlborough, and Bentinck Earl of Portland. Mordaunt
was made Earl of Monmouth, not without some murmuring on the part of old
Exclusionists, who still remembered with fondness their Protestant Duke,
and who had hoped that his attainder would be reversed, and that his
title would be borne by his descendants. It was remarked that the name
of Halifax did not appear in the list of promotions. None could doubt
that he might easily have obtained either a blue riband or a ducal
coronet; and, though he was honourably distinguished from most of his
contemporaries by his scorn of illicit gain, it was well known that he
desired honorary distinctions with a greediness of which he was himself
ashamed, and which was unworthy of his fine understanding. The truth is
that his ambition was at this time chilled by his fears. To those whom
he trusted he hinted his apprehensions that evil times were at hand.
The King's life was not worth a year's purchase: the government was
disjointed, the clergy and the army disaffected, the parliament torn
by factions: civil war was already raging in one part of the empire:
foreign war was impending. At such a moment a minister, whether Whig
or Tory, might well be uneasy; but neither Whig nor Tory had so much to
fear as the Trimmer, who might not improbably find himself the common
mark at which both parties would take aim. For these reasons Halifax
determined to avoid all ostentation of power and influence, to disarm
envy by a studied show of moderation, and to attach to himself by
civilities and benefits persons whose gratitude might be useful in the
event of a counterrevolution. The next three months, he said, would
be the time of trial. If the government got safe through the summer it
would probably stand, [105]
Meanwhile questions of external policy were every day becoming more
and more important. The work at which William had toiled indefatigably
during many gloomy and anxious years was at length accomplished. The
great coalition was formed. It was plain that a desperate conflict was
at hand. The oppressor of Europe would have to defend himself against
England allied with Charles the Second King of Spain, with the Emperor
Leopold, and with the Germanic and Batavian federations, and was likely
to have no ally except the Sultan, who was waging war against the House
of Austria on the Danube.
Lewis had, towards the close of the preceding year, taken his enemies at
a disadvantage, and had struck the first blow before they were prepared
to parry it. But that blow, though heavy, was not aimed at the part
where it might have been mortal. Had hostilities been commenced on
the Batavian frontier, William and his army would probably have been
detained on the continent, and James might have continued to govern
England. Happily, Lewis, under an infatuation which many pious
Protestants confidently ascribed to the righteous judgment of God,
had neglected the point on which the fate of the whole civilised world
depended, and had made a great display of power, promptitude, and
energy, in a quarter where the most splendid achievements could produce
nothing more than an illumination and a Te Deum. A French army under
the command of Marshal Duras had invaded the Palatinate and some of the
neighbouring principalities. But this expedition, though it had been
completely successful, and though the skill and vigour with which it
had been conducted had excited general admiration, could not perceptibly
affect the event of the tremendous struggle which was approaching.
France would soon be attacked on every side. It would be impossible for
Duras long to retain possession of the provinces which he had surprised
and overrun. An atrocious thought rose in the mind of Louvois, who,
in military affairs, had the chief sway at Versailles. He was a man
distinguished by zeal for what he thought the public interests, by
capacity, and by knowledge of all that related to the administration
of war, but of a savage and obdurate nature. If the cities of the
Palatinate could not be retained, they might be destroyed. If the soil
of the Palatinate was not to furnish supplies to the French, it might be
so wasted that it would at least furnish no supplies to the Germans. The
ironhearted statesman submitted his plan, probably with much management
and with some disguise, to Lewis; and Lewis, in an evil hour for his
fame, assented. Duras received orders to turn one of the fairest regions
of Europe into a wilderness. Fifteen years earlier Turenne had ravaged
part of that fine country. But the ravages committed by Turenne, though
they have left a deep stain on his glory, were mere sport in comparison
with the horrors of this second devastation. The French commander
announced to near half a million of human beings that he granted them
three days of grace, and that, within that time, they must shift for
themselves. Soon the roads and fields, which then lay deep in snow, were
blackened by innumerable multitudes of men, women, and children flying
from their homes. Many died of cold and hunger: but enough survived
to fill the streets of all the cities of Europe with lean and squalid
beggars, who had once been thriving farmers and shopkeepers.
Meanwhile the work of destruction began. The flames went up from every
marketplace, every hamlet, every parish church, every country seat,
within the devoted provinces. The fields where the corn had been sown
were ploughed up. The orchards were hewn down. No promise of a harvest
was left on the fertile plains near what had once been Frankenthal. Not
a vine, not an almond tree, was to be seen on the slopes of the sunny
hills round what had once been Heidelberg. No respect was shown to
palaces, to temples, to monasteries, to infirmaries, to beautiful works
of art, to monuments of the illustrious dead. The farfamed castle of the
Elector Palatine was turned into a heap of ruins. The adjoining hospital
was sacked. The provisions, the medicines, the pallets on which the sick
lay were destroyed. The very stones of which Mannheim had been built
were flung into the Rhine. The magnificent Cathedral of Spires perished,
and with it the marble sepulchres of eight Caesars. The coffins were
broken open. The ashes were scattered to the winds, [106] Treves,
with its fair bridge, its Roman amphitheatre, its venerable churches,
convents, and colleges, was doomed to the same fate. But, before this
last crime had been perpetrated, Lewis was recalled to a better mind
by the execrations of all the neighbouring nations, by the silence and
confusion of his flatterers, and by the expostulations of his wife. He
had been more than two years secretly married to Frances de Maintenon,
the governess of his natural children. It would be hard to name any
woman who, with so little romance in her temper, has had so much in
her life. Her early years had been passed in poverty and obscurity.
Her first husband had supported himself by writing burlesque farces
and poems. When she attracted the notice of her sovereign, she could no
longer boast of youth or beauty: but she possessed in an extraordinary
degree those more lasting charms, which men of sense, whose passions
age has tamed, and whose life is a life of business and care, prize most
highly in a female companion. Her character was such as has been well
compared to that soft green on which the eye, wearied by warm tints
and glaring lights, reposes with pleasure. A just understanding;
an inexhaustible yet never redundant flow of rational, gentle, and
sprightly conversation; a temper of which the serenity was never for a
moment ruffled, a tact which surpassed the tact of her sex as much as
the tact of her sex surpasses the tact of ours; such were the qualities
which made the widow of a buffoon first the confidential friend, and
then the spouse, of the proudest and most powerful of European kings. It
was said that Lewis had been with difficulty prevented by the arguments
and vehement entreaties of Louvois from declaring her Queen of France.
It is certain that she regarded Louvois as her enemy. Her hatred of him,
cooperating perhaps with better feelings, induced her to plead the cause
of the unhappy people of the Rhine. She appealed to those sentiments of
compassion which, though weakened by many corrupting influences, were
not altogether extinct in her husband's mind, and to those sentiments of
religion which had too often impelled him to cruelty, but which, on the
present occasion, were on the side of humanity. He relented: and Treves
was spared, [107] In truth he could hardly fail to perceive that he had
committed a great error. The devastation of the Palatinate, while it
had not in any sensible degree lessened the power of his enemies, had
inflamed their animosity, and had furnished them with inexhaustible
matter for invective. The cry of vengeance rose on every side. Whatever
scruple either branch of the House of Austria might have felt about
coalescing with Protestants was completely removed. Lewis accused
the Emperor and the Catholic King of having betrayed the cause of the
Church; of having allied themselves with an usurper who was the avowed
champion of the great schism; of having been accessary to the foul wrong
done to a lawful sovereign who was guilty of no crime but zeal for the
true religion. James sent to Vienna and Madrid piteous letters, in which
he recounted his misfortunes, and implored the assistance of his brother
kings, his brothers also in the faith, against the unnatural children
and the rebellious subjects who had driven him into exile. But there was
little difficulty in framing a plausible answer both to the reproaches
of Lewis and to the supplications of James. Leopold and Charles declared
that they had not, even for purposes of just selfdefence, leagued
themselves with heretics, till their enemy had, for purposes of unjust
aggression, leagued himself with Mahometans. Nor was this the worst.
The French King, not content with assisting the Moslem against the
Christians, was himself treating Christians with a barbarity which would
have shocked the very Moslem. His infidel allies, to do them justice,
had not perpetrated on the Danube such outrages against the edifices
and the members of the Holy Catholic Church as he who called himself
the eldest son of that Church was perpetrating on the Rhine. On these
grounds, the princes to whom James had appealed replied by appealing,
with many professions of good will and compassion, to himself. He was
surely too just to blame them for thinking that it was their first
duty to defend their own people against such outrages as had turned
the Palatinate into a desert, or for calling in the aid of Protestants
against an enemy who had not scrupled to call in the aid of the Turks,
[108]
During the winter and the earlier part of the spring, the powers hostile
to France were gathering their strength for a great effort, and were
in constant communication with one another. As the season for military
operations approached, the solemn appeals of injured nations to the God
of battles came forth in rapid succession. The manifesto of the Germanic
body appeared in February; that of the States General in March; that of
the House of Brandenburg in April; and that of Spain in May, [109]
Here, as soon as the ceremony of the coronation was over, the House of
Commons determined to take into consideration the late proceedings
of the French king, [110] In the debate, that hatred of the powerful,
unscrupulous and imperious Lewis, which had, during twenty years of
vassalage, festered in the hearts of Englishmen, broke violently forth.
He was called the most Christian Turk, the most Christian ravager
of Christendom, the most Christian barbarian who had perpetrated on
Christians outrages of which his infidel allies would have been ashamed,
[111] A committee, consisting chiefly of ardent Whigs, was appointed to
prepare an address. John Hampden, the most ardent Whig among them,
was put into the chair; and he produced a composition too long, too
rhetorical, and too vituperative to suit the lips of the Speaker or the
ears of the King. Invectives against Lewis might perhaps, in the temper
in which the House then was, have passed without censure, if they
had not been accompanied by severe reflections on the character and
administration of Charles the Second, whose memory, in spite of all his
faults, was affectionately cherished by the Tories. There were some
very intelligible allusions to Charles's dealings with the Court of
Versailles, and to the foreign woman whom that Court had sent to lie
like a snake in his bosom. The House was with good reason dissatisfied.
The address was recommitted, and, having been made more concise, and
less declamatory and acrimonious, was approved and presented, [112]
William's attention was called to the wrongs which France had done to
him and to his kingdom; and he was assured that, whenever he should
resort to arms for the redress of those wrongs, he should be heartily
supported by his people. He thanked the Commons warmly. Ambition, he
said, should never induce him to draw the sword: but he had no choice:
France had already attacked England; and it was necessary to exercise
the right of selfdefence. A few days later war was proclaimed, [113]
Of the grounds of quarrel alleged by the Commons in their address, and
by the King in his manifesto, the most serious was the interference
of Lewis in the affairs of Ireland. In that country great events had,
during several months, followed one another in rapid succession. Of
those events it is now time to relate the history, a history dark with
crime and sorrow, yet full of interest and instruction.
CHAPTER XII
State of Ireland at the Time of the Revolution; the Civil Power in the
Hands of the Roman Catholics--The Military Power in the Hands of the
Roman Catholics--Mutual Enmity between the Englishry and
Irishry--Panic among the Englishry--History of the Town of
Kenmare--Enniskillen--Londonderry--Closing of the Gates of
Londonderry--Mountjoy sent to pacify Ulster--William opens a Negotiation
with Tyrconnel--The Temples consulted--Richard Hamilton sent to Ireland
on his Parole--Tyrconnel sends Mountjoy and Rice to France--Tyrconnel
calls the Irish People to Arms--Devastation of the Country--The
Protestants in the South unable to resist--Enniskillen and Londonderry
hold out; Richard Hamilton marches into Ulster with an Army--James
determines to go to Ireland--Assistance furnished by Lewis to
James--Choice of a French Ambassador to accompany James--The Count of
Avaux--James lands at Kinsale--James enters Cork--Journey of James from
Cork to Dublin--Discontent in England--Factions at Dublin Castle--James
determines to go to Ulster--Journey of James to Ulster--The Fall of
Londonderry expected--Succours arrive from England--Treachery of Lundy;
the Inhabitants of Londonderry resolve to defend themselves--Their
Character--Londonderry besieged--The Siege turned into a Blockade--Naval
Skirmish in Bantry Bay--A Parliament summoned by James sits at Dublin--A
Toleration Act passed; Acts passed for the Confiscation of the Property
of Protestants--Issue of base Money--The great Act of Attainder--James
prorogues his Parliament; Persecution of the Protestants in
Ireland--Effect produced in England by the News from Ireland--Actions
of the Enniskilleners--Distress of Londonderry--Expedition under Kirke
arrives in Loch Foyle--Cruelty of Rosen--The Famine in Londonderry
extreme--Attack on the Boom--The Siege of Londonderry raised--Operations
against the Enniskilleners--Battle of Newton Butler--Consternation of
the Irish
WILLIAM had assumed, together with the title of King of England, the
title of King of Ireland. For all our jurists then regarded Ireland as
a mere colony, more important indeed than Massachusetts, Virginia, or
Jamaica, but, like Massachusetts, Virginia, and Jamaica, dependent on
the mother country, and bound to pay allegiance to the Sovereign whom
the mother country had called to the throne, [114]
In fact, however, the Revolution found Ireland emancipated from the
dominion of the English colony. As early as the year 1686, James had
determined to make that island a place of arms which might overawe Great
Britain, and a place of refuge where, if any disaster happened in Great
Britain, the members of his Church might find refuge. With this view
he had exerted all his power for the purpose of inverting the relation
between the conquerors and the aboriginal population. The execution
of his design he had intrusted, in spite of the remonstrances of his
English counsellors, to the Lord Deputy Tyrconnel. In the autumn of
1688, the process was complete. The highest offices in the state, in the
army, and in the Courts of justice, were, with scarcely an exception,
filled by Papists. A pettifogger named Alexander Fitton, who had been
detected in forgery, who had been fined for misconduct by the House of
Lords at Westminster, who had been many years in prison, and who was
equally deficient in legal knowledge and in the natural good sense
and acuteness by which the want of legal knowledge has sometimes
been supplied, was Lord Chancellor. His single merit was that he had
apostatized from the Protestant religion; and this merit was thought
sufficient to wash out even the stain of his Saxon extraction. He soon
proved himself worthy of the confidence of his patrons. On the bench of
justice he declared that there was not one heretic in forty thousand
who was not a villain. He often, after hearing a cause in which the
interests of his Church were concerned, postponed his decision, for the
purpose, as he avowed, of consulting his spiritual director, a Spanish
priest, well read doubtless in Escobar, [115] Thomas Nugent, a Roman
Catholic who had never distinguished himself at the bar except by his
brogue and his blunders, was Chief Justice of the King's Bench, [116]
Stephen Rice, a Roman Catholic, whose abilities and learning were not
disputed even by the enemies of his nation and religion, but whose
known hostility to the Act of Settlement excited the most painful
apprehensions in the minds of all who held property under that Act, was
Chief Baron of the Exchequer, [117] Richard Nagle, an acute and well
read lawyer, who had been educated in a Jesuit college, and whose
prejudices were such as might have been expected from his education, was
Attorney General, [118]
Keating, a highly respectable Protestant, was still Chief Justice of the
Common Pleas: but two Roman Catholic judges sate with him. It ought to
be added that one of those judges, Daly, was a man of sense, moderation
and integrity. The matters however which came before the Court of Common
Pleas were not of great moment. Even the King's Bench was at this time
almost deserted. The Court of Exchequer overflowed with business; for it
was the only court at Dublin from which no writ of error lay to England,
and consequently the only court in which the English could be oppressed
and pillaged without hope of redress. Rice, it was said, had declared
that they should have from him exactly what the law, construed with the
utmost strictness, gave them, and nothing more. What, in his opinion,
the law, strictly construed, gave them, they could easily infer from a
saying which, before he became a judge, was often in his mouth. "I will
drive," he used to say, "a coach and six through the Act of Settlement."
He now carried his threat daily into execution. The cry of all
Protestants was that it mattered not what evidence they produced
before him; that, when their titles were to be set aside, the
rankest forgeries, the most infamous witnesses, were sure to have his
countenance. To his court his countrymen came in multitudes with writs
of ejectment and writs of trespass. In his court the government attacked
at once the charters of all the cities and boroughs in Ireland; and he
easily found pretexts for pronouncing all those charters forfeited. The
municipal corporations, about a hundred in number, had been instituted
to be the strongholds of the reformed religion and of the English
interest, and had consequently been regarded by the Irish Roman
Catholics with an aversion which cannot be thought unnatural or
unreasonable. Had those bodies been remodelled in a judicious and
impartial manner, the irregularity of the proceedings by which so
desirable a result had been attained might have been pardoned. But it
soon appeared that one exclusive system had been swept away only to make
room for another. The boroughs were subjected to the absolute authority
of the Crown. Towns in which almost every householder was an English
Protestant were placed under the government of Irish Roman Catholics.
Many of the new Aldermen had never even seen the places over which they
were appointed to bear rule. At the same time the Sheriffs, to whom
belonged the execution of writs and the nomination of juries, were
selected in almost every instance from the caste which had till very
recently been excluded from all public trust. It was affirmed that some
of these important functionaries had been burned in the hand for theft.
Others had been servants to Protestants; and the Protestants added, with
bitter scorn, that it was fortunate for the country when this was the
case; for that a menial who had cleaned the plate and rubbed down the
horse of an English gentleman might pass for a civilised being, when
compared with many of the native aristocracy whose lives had been spent
in coshering or marauding. To such Sheriffs no colonist, even if he had
been so strangely fortunate as to obtain a judgment, dared to intrust an
execution, [119]
Thus the civil power had, in the space of a few months, been transferred
from the Saxon to the Celtic population. The transfer of the military
power had been not less complete. The army, which, under the command
of Ormond, had been the chief safeguard of the English ascendency, had
ceased to exist. Whole regiments had been dissolved and reconstructed.
Six thousand Protestant veterans, deprived of their bread, were brooding
in retirement over their wrongs, or had crossed the sea and joined
the standard of William. Their place was supplied by men who had long
suffered oppression, and who, finding themselves suddenly transformed
from slaves into masters, were impatient to pay back, with accumulated
usury, the heavy debt of injuries and insults. The new soldiers, it was
said, never passed an Englishman without cursing him and calling him by
some foul name. They were the terror of every Protestant innkeeper; for,
from the moment when they came under his roof, they ate and drank every
thing: they paid for nothing; and by their rude swaggering they scared
more respectable guests from his door, [120]
Such was the state of Ireland when the Prince of Orange landed at
Torbay. From that time every packet which arrived at Dublin brought
tidings, such as could not but increase the mutual fear and loathing of
the hostile races. The colonist, who, after long enjoying and abusing
power, had now tasted for a moment the bitterness of servitude, the
native, who, having drunk to the dregs all the bitterness of servitude,
had at length for a moment enjoyed and abused power, were alike sensible
that a great crisis, a crisis like that of 1641, was at hand. The
majority impatiently expected Phelim O'Neil to revive in Tyrconnel. The
minority saw in William a second Over.
On which side the first blow was struck was a question which Williamites
and Jacobites afterwards debated with much asperity. But no question
could be more idle. History must do to both parties the justice which
neither has ever done to the other, and must admit that both had fair
pleas and cruel provocations. Both had been placed, by a fate for which
neither was answerable, in such a situation that, human nature being
what it is, they could not but regard each other with enmity. During
three years the government which might have reconciled them had
systematically employed its whole power for the purpose of inflaming
their enmity to madness. It was now impossible to establish in Ireland
a just and beneficent government, a government which should know no
distinction of race or of sect, a government which, while strictly
respecting the rights guaranteed by law to the new landowners, should
alleviate by a judicious liberality the misfortunes of the ancient
gentry. Such a government James might have established in the day of
his power. But the opportunity had passed away: compromise had become
impossible: the two infuriated castes were alike convinced that it was
necessary to oppress or to be oppressed, and that there could be no
safety but in victory, vengeance, and dominion. They agreed only in
spurning out of the way every mediator who sought to reconcile them.
During some weeks there were outrages, insults, evil reports, violent
panics, the natural preludes of the terrible conflict which was at hand.
A rumour spread over the whole island that, on the ninth of December,
there would be a general massacre of the Englishry. Tyrconnel sent
for the chief Protestants of Dublin to the Castle, and, with his usual
energy of diction, invoked on himself all the vengeance of heaven if the
report was not a cursed, a blasted, a confounded lie. It was said that,
in his rage at finding his oaths ineffectual, he pulled off his hat and
wig, and flung them into the fire, [121] But lying Dick Talbot was so
well known that his imprecations and gesticulations only strengthened
the apprehension which they were meant to allay. Ever since the recall
of Clarendon there had been a large emigration of timid and quiet people
from the Irish ports to England. That emigration now went on faster than
ever. It was not easy to obtain a passage on board of a well built or
commodious vessel. But many persons, made bold by the excess of fear,
and choosing rather to trust the winds and waves than the exasperated
Irishry, ventured to encounter all the dangers of Saint George's Channel
and of the Welsh coast in open boats and in the depth of winter. The
English who remained began, in almost every county, to draw close
together. Every large country house became a fortress. Every visitor
who arrived after nightfall was challenged from a loophole or from a
barricaded window; and, if he attempted to enter without pass words and
explanations, a blunderbuss was presented to him. On the dreaded night
of the ninth of December, there was scarcely one Protestant mansion from
the Giant's Causeway to Bantry Bay in which armed men were not watching
and lights burning from the early sunset to the late sunrise, [122]
A minute account of what passed in one district at this time has come
down to us, and well illustrates the general state of the kingdom. The
south-western part of Kerry is now well known as the most beautiful
tract in the British isles. The mountains, the glens, the capes
stretching far into the Atlantic, the crags on which the eagles build,
the rivulets brawling down rocky passes, the lakes overhung by groves
in which the wild deer find covert, attract every summer crowds of
wanderers sated with the business and the pleasures of great cities.
The beauties of that country are indeed too often hidden in the mist and
rain which the west wind brings up from a boundless ocean. But, on the
rare days when the sun shines out in all his glory, the landscape has
a freshness and a warmth of colouring seldom found in our latitude. The
myrtle loves the soil. The arbutus thrives better than even on the sunny
shore of Calabria, [123] The turf is of livelier hue than elsewhere:
the hills glow with a richer purple: the varnish of the holly and ivy
is more glossy; and berries of a brighter red peep through foliage of a
brighter green. But during the greater part of the seventeenth century,
this paradise was as little known to the civilised world as Spitzbergen
or Greenland. If ever it was mentioned, it was mentioned as a horrible
desert, a chaos of bogs, thickets, and precipices, where the she wolf
still littered, and where some half naked savages, who could not speak a
word of English, made themselves burrows in the mud, and lived on roots
and sour milk, [124]
At length, in the year 1670, the benevolent and enlightened Sir William
Petty determined to form an English settlement in this wild district.
He possessed a large domain there, which has descended to a posterity
worthy of such an ancestor. On the improvement of that domain he
expended, it was said, not less than ten thousand pounds. The little
town which he founded, named from the bay of Kenmare, stood at the head
of that bay, under a mountain ridge, on the summit of which travellers
now stop to gaze upon the loveliest of the three lakes of Killarney.
Scarcely any village, built by an enterprising band of New Englanders,
far from the dwellings of their countrymen, in the midst of the hunting
grounds of the Red Indians, was more completely out of the pale of
civilisation than Kenmare. Between Petty's settlement and the nearest
English habitation the journey by land was of two days through a wild
and dangerous country. Yet the place prospered. Forty-two houses were
erected. The population amounted to a hundred and eighty. The land round
the town was well cultivated. The cattle were numerous. Two small barks
were employed in fishing and trading along the coast. The supply of
herrings, pilchards, mackerel, and salmon was plentiful, and would have
been still more plentiful, had not the beach been, in the finest part
of the year, covered by multitudes of seals, which preyed on the fish
of the bay. Yet the seal was not an unwelcome visitor: his fur was
valuable,; and his oil supplied light through the long nights of winter.
An attempt was made with great success to set up iron works. It was not
yet the practice to employ coal for the purpose of smelting; and the
manufacturers of Kent and Sussex had much difficulty in procuring timber
at a reasonable price. The neighbourhood of Kenmare was then richly
wooded; and Petty found it a gainful speculation to send ore thither.
The lovers of the picturesque still regret the woods of oak and arbutus
which were cut down to feed his furnaces. Another scheme had occurred
to his active and intelligent mind. Some of the neighbouring islands
abounded with variegated marble, red and white, purple and green. Petty
well knew at what cost the ancient Romans had decorated their baths
and temples with many coloured columns hewn from Laconian and African
quarries; and he seems to have indulged the hope that the rocks of his
wild domain in Kerry might furnish embellishments to the mansions of
Saint James's Square, and to the choir of Saint Paul's Cathedral, [125]
From the first, the settlers had found that they must be prepared to
exercise the right of selfdefence to an extent which would have been
unnecessary and unjustifiable in a well governed country. The law was
altogether without force in the highlands which lie on the south of
the vale of Tralee. No officer of justice willingly ventured into those
parts. One pursuivant who in 1680 attempted to execute a warrant
there was murdered. The people of Kenmare seem however to have been
sufficiently secured by their union, their intelligence and their
spirit, till the close of the year 1688. Then at length the effects of
the policy of Tyrconnel began to be felt ever, in that remote corner
of Ireland. In the eyes of the peasantry of Munster the colonists
were aliens and heretics. The buildings, the boats, the machines, the
granaries, the dairies, the furnaces, were doubtless contemplated by the
native race with that mingled envy and contempt with which the ignorant
naturally regard the triumphs of knowledge. Nor is it at all improbable
that the emigrants had been guilty of those faults from which civilised
men who settle among an uncivilised people are rarely free. The power
derived from superior intelligence had, we may easily believe,
been sometimes displayed with insolence, and sometimes exerted with
injustice. Now therefore, when the news spread from altar to altar, and
from cabin to cabin, that the strangers were to be driven out, and that
their houses and lands were to be given as a booty to the children of
the soil, a predatory war commenced. Plunderers, thirty, forty, seventy
in a troop, prowled round the town, some with firearms, some with pikes.
The barns were robbed. The horses were stolen. In one foray a hundred
and forty cattle were swept away and driven off through the ravines of
Glengariff. In one night six dwellings were broken open and pillaged. At
last the colonists, driven to extremity, resolved to die like men rather
than be murdered in their beds. The house built by Petty for his agent
was the largest in the place. It stood on a rocky peninsula round
which the waves of the bay broke. Here the whole population assembled,
seventy-five fighting men, with about a hundred women and children. They
had among them sixty firelocks, and as many pikes and swords. Round the
agent's house they threw up with great speed a wall of turf fourteen
feet in height and twelve in thickness. The space enclosed was about
half an acre. Within this rampart all the arms, the ammunition and the
provisions of the settlement were collected, and several huts of thin
plank were built. When these preparations were completed, the men of
Kenmare began to make vigorous reprisals on their Irish neighbours,
seized robbers, recovered stolen property, and continued during
some weeks to act in all things as an independent commonwealth. The
government was carried on by elective officers, to whom every member of
the society swore fidelity on the Holy Gospels, [126]
While the people of the small town of Kenmare were thus bestirring
themselves, similar preparations for defence were made by larger
communities on a larger scale. Great numbers of gentlemen and yeomen
quitted the open country, and repaired to those towns which had
been founded and incorporated for the purpose of bridling the native
population, and which, though recently placed under the government of
Roman Catholic magistrates, were still inhabited chiefly by Protestants.
A considerable body of armed colonists mustered at Sligo, another
at Charleville, a third at Marlow, a fourth still more formidable at
Bandon, [127] But the principal strongholds of the Englishry during this
evil time were Enniskillen and Londonderry.
Enniskillen, though the capital of the county of Fermanagh, was then
merely a village. It was built on an island surrounded by the river
which joins the two beautiful sheets of water known by the common name
of Lough Erne. The stream and both the lakes were overhung on every
side by natural forests. Enniskillen consisted of about eighty dwellings
clustering round an ancient castle. The inhabitants were, with scarcely
an exception, Protestants, and boasted that their town had been true to
the Protestant cause through the terrible rebellion which broke out in
1641. Early in December they received from Dublin an intimation that two
companies of Popish infantry were to be immediately quartered on them.
The alarm of the little community was great, and the greater because it
was known that a preaching friar had been exerting himself to inflame
the Irish population of the neighbourhood against the heretics. A
daring resolution was taken. Come what might, the troops should not
be admitted. Yet the means of defence were slender. Not ten pounds of
powder, not twenty firelocks fit for use, could be collected within
the walls. Messengers were sent with pressing letters to summon the
Protestant gentry of the vicinage to the rescue; and the summons was
gallantly obeyed. In a few hours two hundred foot and a hundred and
fifty horse had assembled. Tyrconnel's soldiers were already at hand.
They brought with them a considerable supply of arms to be distributed
among the peasantry. The peasantry greeted the royal standard with
delight, and accompanied the march in great numbers. The townsmen and
their allies, instead of waiting to be attacked, came boldly forth
to encounter the intruders. The officers of James had expected no
resistance. They were confounded when they saw confronting them a column
of foot, flanked by a large body of mounted gentlemen and yeomen. The
crowd of camp followers ran away in terror. The soldiers made a retreat
so precipitate that it might be called a flight, and scarcely halted
till they were thirty miles off at Cavan, [128]
The Protestants, elated by this easy victory, proceeded to make
arrangements for the government and defence of Enniskillen and of the
surrounding country. Gustavus Hamilton, a gentleman who had served
in the army, but who had recently been deprived of his commission by
Tyrconnel, and had since been living on an estate in Fermanagh, was
appointed Governor, and took up his residence in the castle. Trusty men
were enlisted, and armed with great expedition. As there was a scarcity
of swords and pikes, smiths were employed to make weapons by fastening
scythes on poles. All the country houses round Lough Erne were turned
into garrisons. No Papist was suffered to be at large in the town;
and the friar who was accused of exerting his eloquence against the
Englishry was thrown into prison, [129]
The other great fastness of Protestantism was a place of more
importance. Eighty years before, during the troubles caused by the last
struggle of the houses of O'Neil and O'Donnel against the authority of
James the First, the ancient city of Derry had been surprised by one of
the native chiefs: the inhabitants had been slaughtered, and the houses
reduced to ashes. The insurgents were speedily put down and punished:
the government resolved to restore the ruined town: the Lord Mayor,
Aldermen, and Common Council of London were invited to assist in the
work; and King James the First made over to them in their corporate
capacity the ground covered by the ruins of the old Derry, and about six
thousand English acres in the neighbourhood, [130]
This country, then uncultivated and uninhabited, is now enriched by
industry, embellished by taste, and pleasing even to eyes accustomed to
the well tilled fields and stately manor houses of England. A new city
soon arose which, on account of its connection with the capital of the
empire, was called Londonderry. The buildings covered the summit and
slope of a hill which overlooked the broad stream of the Foyle, then
whitened by vast flocks of wild swans, [131] On the highest ground stood
the Cathedral, a church which, though erected when the secret of Gothic
architecture was lost, and though ill qualified to sustain a comparison
with the awful temples of the middle ages, is not without grace and
dignity. Near the Cathedral rose the palace of the Bishop, whose see
was one of the most valuable in Ireland. The city was in form nearly an
ellipse; and the principal streets formed a cross, the arms of which
met in a square called the Diamond. The original houses have been either
rebuilt or so much repaired that their ancient character can no longer
be traced; but many of them were standing within living memory. They
were in general two stories in height; and some of them had stone
staircases on the outside. The dwellings were encompassed by a wall
of which the whole circumference was little less than a mile. On the
bastions were planted culverins and sakers presented by the wealthy
guilds of London to the colony. On some of these ancient guns, which
have done memorable service to a great cause, the devices of the
Fishmongers' Company, of the Vintners' Company, and of the Merchant
Tailors' Company are still discernible, [132]
The inhabitants were Protestants of Anglosaxon blood. They were indeed
not all of one country or of one church but Englishmen and Scotchmen,
Episcopalians and Presbyterians, seem to have generally lived together
in friendship, a friendship which is sufficiently explained by their
common antipathy to the Irish race and to the Popish religion. During
the rebellion of 1641, Londonderry had resolutely held out against the
native chieftains, and had been repeatedly besieged in vain, [133] Since
the Restoration the city had prospered. The Foyle, when the tide was
high, brought up ships of large burden to the quay. The fisheries throve
greatly. The nets, it was said, were sometimes so full that it was
necessary to fling back multitudes of fish into the waves. The quantity
of salmon caught annually was estimated at eleven hundred thousand
pounds' weight, [134]
The people of Londonderry shared in the alarm which, towards the close
of the year 1688, was general among the Protestants settled in Ireland.
It was known that the aboriginal peasantry of the neighbourhood were
laying in pikes and knives. Priests had been haranguing in a style of
which, it must be owned, the Puritan part of the Anglosaxon colony had
little right to complain, about the slaughter of the Amalekites, and
the judgments which Saul had brought on himself by sparing one of the
proscribed race. Rumours from various quarters and anonymous letters in
various hands agreed in naming the ninth of December as the day fixed
for the extirpation of the strangers. While the minds of the citizens
were agitated by these reports, news came that a regiment of twelve
hundred Papists, commanded by a Papist, Alexander Macdonnell, Earl of
Antrim, had received orders from the Lord Deputy to occupy Londonderry,
and was already on the march from Coleraine. The consternation was
extreme. Some were for closing the gates and resisting; some for
submitting; some for temporising. The corporation had, like the other
corporations of Ireland, been remodelled. The magistrates were men of
low station and character. Among them was only one person of Anglosaxon
extraction; and he had turned Papist. In such rulers the inhabitants
could place no confidence, [135] The Bishop, Ezekiel Hopkins, resolutely
adhered to the doctrine of nonresistance, which he had preached during
many years, and exhorted his flock to go patiently to the slaughter
rather than incur the guilt of disobeying the Lord's Anointed, [136]
Antrim was meanwhile drawing nearer and nearer. At length the citizens
saw from the walls his troops arrayed on the opposite shore of the
Foyle. There was then no bridge: but there was a ferry which kept up a
constant communication between the two banks of the river; and by
this ferry a detachment from Antrim's regiment crossed. The officers
presented themselves at the gate, produced a warrant directed to
the Mayor and Sheriffs, and demanded admittance and quarters for his
Majesty's soldiers.
Just at this moment thirteen young apprentices, most of whom appear,
from their names, to have been of Scottish birth or descent, flew to the
guard room, armed themselves, seized the keys of the city, rushed to the
Ferry Gate, closed it in the face of the King's officers, and let
down the portcullis. James Morison, a citizen more advanced in years,
addressed the intruders from the top of the wall and advised them to
be gone. They stood in consultation before the gate till they heard
him cry, "Bring a great gun this way." They then thought it time to get
beyond the range of shot. They retreated, reembarked, and rejoined their
comrades on the other side of the river. The flame had already spread.
The whole city was up. The other gates were secured. Sentinels paced the
ramparts everywhere. The magazines were opened. Muskets and gunpowder
were distributed. Messengers were sent, under cover of the following
night, to the Protestant gentlemen of the neighbouring counties. The
bishop expostulated in vain. It is indeed probable that the vehement
and daring young Scotchmen who had taken the lead on this occasion had
little respect for his office. One of them broke in on a discourse with
which he interrupted the military preparations by exclaiming, "A good
sermon, my lord; a very good sermon; but we have not time to hear it
just now." [137]
The Protestants of the neighbourhood promptly obeyed the summons of
Londonderry. Within forty-eight hours hundreds of horse and foot came by
various roads to the city. Antrim, not thinking himself strong enough to
risk an attack, or not disposed to take on himself the responsibility of
commencing a civil war without further orders, retired with his troops
to Coleraine.
It might have been expected that the resistance of Enniskillen and
Londonderry would have irritated Tyrconnel into taking some desperate
step. And in truth his savage and imperious temper was at first inflamed
by the news almost to madness. But, after wreaking his rage, as usual,
on his wig, he became somewhat calmer. Tidings of a very sobering nature
had just reached him. The Prince of Orange was marching unopposed to
London. Almost every county and every great town in England had declared
for him. James, deserted by his ablest captains and by his nearest
relatives, had sent commissioners to treat with the invaders, and
had issued writs convoking a Parliament. While the result of the
negotiations which were pending in England was uncertain, the Viceroy
could not venture to take a bloody revenge on the refractory Protestants
of Ireland. He therefore thought it expedient to affect for a time
a clemency and moderation which were by no means congenial to his
disposition. The task of quieting the Englishry of Ulster was intrusted
to William Stewart, Viscount Mountjoy. Mountjoy, a brave soldier, an
accomplished scholar, a zealous Protestant, and yet a zealous Tory, was
one of the very few members of the Established Church who still held
office in Ireland. He was Master of the Ordnance in that kingdom, and
was colonel of a regiment in which an uncommonly large proportion of the
Englishry had been suffered to remain. At Dublin he was the centre of a
small circle of learned and ingenious men who had, under his presidency,
formed themselves into a Royal Society, the image, on a small scale,
of the Royal Society of London. In Ulster, with which he was peculiarly
connected, his name was held in high honour by the colonists, [138] He
hastened with his regiment to Londonderry, and was well received there.
For it was known that, though he was firmly attached to hereditary
monarchy, he was not less firmly attached to the reformed religion.
The citizens readily permitted him to leave within their walls a small
garrison exclusively composed of Protestants, under the command of his
lieutenant colonel, Robert Lundy, who took the title of Governor, [139]
The news of Mountjoy's visit to Ulster was highly gratifying to the
defenders of Enniskillen. Some gentlemen deputed by that town waited on
him to request his good offices, but were disappointed by the reception
which they found. "My advice to you is," he said, "to submit to the
King's authority." "What, my Lord?" said one of the deputies; "Are we
to sit still and let ourselves be butchered?" "The King," said Mountjoy,
"will protect you." "If all that we hear be true," said the deputy, "his
Majesty will find it hard enough to protect himself." The conference
ended in this unsatisfactory manner. Enniskillen still kept its attitude
of defiance; and Mountjoy returned to Dublin, [140]
By this time it had indeed become evident that James could not protect
himself. It was known in Ireland that he had fled; that he had been
stopped; that he had fled again; that the Prince of Orange had arrived
at Westminster in triumph, had taken on himself the administration of
the realm, and had issued letters summoning a Convention.
Those lords and gentlemen at whose request the Prince had assumed the
government, had earnestly intreated him to take the state of Ireland
into his immediate consideration; and he had in reply assured them that
he would do his best to maintain the Protestant religion and the English
interest in that kingdom. His enemies afterwards accused him of utterly
disregarding this promise: nay, they alleged that he purposely suffered
Ireland to sink deeper and deeper in calamity. Halifax, they said, had,
with cruel and perfidious ingenuity, devised this mode of placing the
Convention under a species of duress; and the trick had succeeded but
too well. The vote which called William to the throne would not have
passed so easily but for the extreme dangers which threatened the state;
and it was in consequence of his own dishonest inactivity that those
dangers had become extreme, [141] As this accusation rests on no proof,
those who repeat it are at least bound to show that some course clearly
better than the course which William took was open to him; and this they
will find a difficult task. If indeed he could, within a few weeks after
his arrival in London, have sent a great expedition to Ireland, that
kingdom might perhaps, after a short struggle, or without a struggle,
have submitted to his authority; and a long series of crimes and
calamities might have been averted. But the factious orators and
pamphleteers, who, much at their ease, reproached him for not sending
such an expedition, would have been perplexed if they had been required
to find the men, the ships, and the funds. The English army had lately
been arrayed against him: part of it was still ill disposed towards him;
and the whole was utterly disorganized. Of the army which he had brought
from Holland not a regiment could be spared. He had found the treasury
empty and the pay of the navy in arrear. He had no power to hypothecate
any part of the public revenue. Those who lent him money lent it on no
security but his bare word. It was only by the patriotic liberality
of the merchants of London that he was enabled to defray the ordinary
charges of government till the meeting of the Convention. It is
surely unjust to blame him for not instantly fitting out, in such
circumstances, an armament sufficient to conquer a kingdom.
Perceiving that, till the government of England was settled, it would
not be in his power to interfere effectually by arms in the affairs of
Ireland, he determined to try what effect negotiation would produce.
Those who judged after the event pronounced that he had not, on this
occasion, shown his usual sagacity. He ought, they said, to have known
that it was absurd to expect submission from Tyrconnel. Such however
was not at the time the opinion of men who had the best means of
information, and whose interest was a sufficient pledge for their
sincerity. A great meeting of noblemen and gentlemen who had property
in Ireland was held, during the interregnum, at the house of the Duke of
Ormond in Saint James's Square. They advised the Prince to try whether
the Lord Deputy might not be induced to capitulate on honourable and
advantageous terms, [142] In truth there is strong reason to believe
that Tyrconnel really wavered. For, fierce as were his passions, they
never made him forgetful of his interest; and he might well doubt
whether it were not for his interest, in declining years and health,
to retire from business with full indemnity for all past offences, with
high rank and with an ample fortune, rather than to stake his life and
property on the event of a war against the whole power of England. It
is certain that he professed himself willing to yield. He opened a
communication with the Prince of Orange, and affected to take counsel
with Mountjoy, and with others who, though they had not thrown off their
allegiance to James, were yet firmly attached to the Established Church
and to the English connection.
In one quarter, a quarter from which William was justified in expecting
the most judicious counsel, there was a strong conviction that the
professions of Tyrconnel were sincere. No British statesman had then
so high a reputation throughout Europe as Sir William Temple. His
diplomatic skill had, twenty years before, arrested the progress of the
French power. He had been a steady and an useful friend to the United
Provinces and to the House of Nassau. He had long been on terms of
friendly confidence with the Prince of Orange, and had negotiated that
marriage to which England owed her recent deliverance. With the affairs
of Ireland Temple was supposed to be peculiarly well acquainted. His
family had considerable property there: he had himself resided there
during several years: he had represented the county of Carlow in
parliament; and a large part of his income was derived from a lucrative
Irish office. There was no height of power, of rank, or of opulence, to
which he might not have risen, if he would have consented to quit his
retreat, and to lend his assistance and the weight of his name to the
new government. But power, rank, and opulence had less attraction
for his Epicurean temper than ease and security. He rejected the most
tempting invitations, and continued to amuse himself with his books, his
tulips, and his pineapples, in rural seclusion. With some hesitation,
however, he consented to let his eldest son John enter into the service
of William. During the vacancy of the throne, John Temple was employed
in business of high importance; and, on subjects connected with Ireland,
his opinion, which might reasonably be supposed to agree with his
father's, had great weight. The young politician flattered himself that
he had secured the services of an agent eminently qualified to bring the
negotiation with Tyrconnel to a prosperous issue.
This agent was one of a remarkable family which had sprung from a noble
Scottish stock, but which had long been settled in Ireland, and which
professed the Roman Catholic religion. In the gay crowd which thronged
Whitehall, during those scandalous years of jubilee which immediately
followed the Restoration, the Hamiltons were preeminently conspicuous.
The long fair ringlets, the radiant bloom, and the languishing blue eyes
of the lovely Elizabeth still charm us on the canvass of Lely. She
had the glory of achieving no vulgar conquest. It was reserved for her
voluptuous beauty and for her flippant wit to overcome the aversion
which the coldhearted and scoffing Grammont felt for the indissoluble
tie. One of her brothers, Anthony, became the chronicler of that
brilliant and dissolute society of which he had been one of the most
brilliant and most dissolute members. He deserves the high praise of
having, though not a Frenchman, written the book which is, of all books,
the most exquisitely French, both in spirit and in manner. Another
brother, named Richard, had, in foreign service, gained some military
experience. His wit and politeness had distinguished him even in the
splendid circle of Versailles. It was whispered that he had dared to
lift his eyes to an exalted lady, the natural daughter of the Great
King, the wife of a legitimate prince of the House of Bourbon, and
that she had not seemed to be displeased by the attentions of her
presumptuous admirer, [143] The adventurer had subsequently returned to
his native country, had been appointed Brigadier General in the Irish
army, and had been sworn of the Irish Privy Council. When the Dutch
invasion was expected, he came across Saint George's Channel with the
troops which Tyrconnel sent to reinforce the royal army. After the
flight of James, those troops submitted to the Prince of Orange. Richard
Hamilton not only made his own peace with what was now the ruling power,
but declared himself confident that, if he were sent to Dublin, he could
conduct the negotiation which had been opened there to a happy close. If
he failed, he pledged his word to return to London in three weeks. His
influence in Ireland was known to be great: his honour had never been
questioned; and he was highly esteemed by the Temple family. John Temple
declared that he would answer for Richard Hamilton as for himself. This
guarantee was thought sufficient; and Hamilton set out for Ireland,
assuring his English friends that he should soon bring Tyrconnel
to reason. The offers which he was authorised to make to the Roman
Catholics and to the Lord Deputy personally were most liberal, [144]
It is not impossible that Hamilton may have really meant to perform his
promise. But when he arrived at Dublin he found that he had undertaken
a task which was beyond his power. The hesitation of Tyrconnel, whether
genuine or feigned, was at an end. He had found that he had no longer
a choice. He had with little difficulty stimulated the ignorant and
susceptible Irish to fury. To calm them was beyond his skill. Rumours
were abroad that the Viceroy was corresponding with the English; and
these rumours had set the nation on fire. The cry of the common people
was that, if he dared to sell them for wealth and honours, they would
burn the Castle and him in it, and would put themselves under the
protection of France, [145] It was necessary for him to protest, truly
or falsely, that he had never harboured any thought of submission, and
that he had pretended to negotiate only for the purpose of gaining time.
Yet, before he openly declared against the English settlers, and against
England herself, what must be a war to the death, he wished to rid
himself of Mountjoy, who had hitherto been true to the cause of James,
but who, it was well known, would never consent to be a party to the
spoliation and oppression of the colonists. Hypocritical professions of
friendship and of pacific intentions were not spared. It was a sacred
duty, Tyrconnel said, to avert the calamities which seemed to be
impending. King James himself, if he understood the whole case, would
not wish his Irish friends to engage at that moment in an enterprise
which must be fatal to them and useless to him. He would permit them,
he would command them, to submit to necessity, and to reserve themselves
for better times. If any man of weight, loyal, able, and well informed,
would repair to Saint Germains and explain the state of things, his
Majesty would easily be convinced. Would Mountjoy undertake this most
honourable and important mission? Mountjoy hesitated, and suggested
that some person more likely to be acceptable to the King should be the
messenger. Tyrconnel swore, ranted, declared that, unless King James
were well advised, Ireland would sink to the pit of hell, and insisted
that Mountjoy should go as the representative of the loyal members of
the Established Church, and should be accompanied by Chief Baron Rice,
a Roman Catholic high in the royal favour. Mountjoy yielded. The two
ambassadors departed together, but with very different commissions. Rice
was charged to tell James that Mountjoy was a traitor at heart, and
had been sent to France only that the Protestants of Ireland might be
deprived of a favourite leader. The King was to be assured that he was
impatiently expected in Ireland, and that, if he would show himself
there with a French force, he might speedily retrieve his fallen
fortunes, [146] The Chief Baron carried with him other instructions
which were probably kept secret even from the Court of Saint Germains.
If James should be unwilling to put himself at the head of the native
population of Ireland, Rice was directed to request a private audience
of Lewis, and to offer to make the island a province of France, [147]
As soon as the two envoys had departed, Tyrconnel set himself to prepare
for the conflict which had become inevitable; and he was strenuously
assisted by the faithless Hamilton. The Irish nation was called to arms;
and the call was obeyed with strange promptitude and enthusiasm. The
flag on the Castle of Dublin was embroidered with the words, "Now or
never: now and for ever:" and those words resounded through the whole
island, [148] Never in modern Europe has there been such a rising up of
a whole people. The habits of the Celtic peasant were such that he
made no sacrifice in quitting his potatoe ground for the camp. He loved
excitement and adventure. He feared work far more than danger.
His national and religious feelings had, during three years, been
exasperated by the constant application of stimulants. At every fair and
market he had heard that a good time was at hand, that the tyrants who
spoke Saxon and lived in slated houses were about to be swept away, and
that the land would again belong to its own children. By the peat fires
of a hundred thousand cabins had nightly been sung rude ballads which
predicted the deliverance of the oppressed race. The priests, most of
whom belonged to those old families which the Act of Settlement had
ruined, but which were still revered by the native population, had, from
a thousand altars, charged every Catholic to show his zeal for the true
Church by providing weapons against the day when it might be necessary
to try the chances of battle in her cause. The army, which, under
Ormond, had consisted of only eight regiments, was now increased
to forty-eight: and the ranks were soon full to overflowing. It was
impossible to find at short notice one tenth of the number of good
officers which was required. Commissions were scattered profusely among
idle cosherers who claimed to be descended from good Irish families.
Yet even thus the supply of captains and lieutenants fell short of
the demand; and many companies were commanded by cobblers, tailors and
footmen, [149]
The pay of the soldiers was very small. The private had only threepence
a day. One half only of this pittance was ever given him in money; and
that half was often in arrear. But a far more seductive bait than
his miserable stipend was the prospect of boundless license. If the
government allowed him less than sufficed for his wants, it was not
extreme to mark the means by which he supplied the deficiency. Though
four fifths of the population of Ireland were Celtic and Roman Catholic,
more than four fifths of the property of Ireland belonged to the
Protestant Englishry. The garners, the cellars, above all the flocks
and herds of the minority, were abandoned to the majority. Whatever the
regular troops spared was devoured by bands of marauders who overran
almost every barony in the island. For the arming was now universal. No
man dared to present himself at mass without some weapon, a pike, a
long knife called a skean, or, at the very least, a strong ashen stake,
pointed and hardened in the fire. The very women were exhorted by their
spiritual directors to carry skeans. Every smith, every carpenter,
every cutler, was at constant work on guns and blades. It was scarcely
possible to get a horse shod. If any Protestant artisan refused to
assist in the manufacture of implements which were to be used against
his nation and his religion, he was flung into prison. It seems probable
that, at the end of February, at least a hundred thousand Irishmen
were in arms. Near fifty thousand of them were soldiers. The rest were
banditti, whose violence and licentiousness the Government affected to
disapprove, but did not really exert itself to suppress. The Protestants
not only were not protected, but were not suffered to protect
themselves. It was determined that they should be left unarmed in the
midst of an armed and hostile population. A day was fixed on which they
were to bring all their swords and firelocks to the parish churches; and
it was notified that every Protestant house in which, after that day, a
weapon should be found should be given up to be sacked by the soldiers.
Bitter complaints were made that any knave might, by hiding a spear head
or an old gun barrel in a corner of a mansion, bring utter ruin on the
owner, [150]
Chief Justice Keating, himself a Protestant, and almost the only
Protestant who still held a great place in Ireland, struggled
courageously in the cause of justice and order against the united
strength of the government and the populace. At the Wicklow assizes
of that spring, he, from the seat of judgment, set forth with great
strength of language the miserable state of the country. Whole counties,
he said, were devastated by a rabble resembling the vultures and ravens
which follow the march of an army. Most of these wretches were not
soldiers. They acted under no authority known to the law. Yet it was,
he owned, but too evident that they were encouraged and screened by some
who were in high command. How else could it be that a market overt
for plunder should be held within a short distance of the capital? The
stories which travellers told of the savage Hottentots near the Cape of
Good Hope were realised in Leinster. Nothing was more common than for an
honest man to lie down rich in flocks and herds acquired by the industry
of a long life, and to wake a beggar. It was however to small purpose
that Keating attempted, in the midst of that fearful anarchy, to uphold
the supremacy of the law. Priests and military chiefs appeared on the
bench for the purpose of overawing the judge and countenancing the
robbers. One ruffian escaped because no prosecutor dared to appear.
Another declared that he had armed himself in conformity to the orders
of his spiritual guide, and to the example of many persons of higher
station than himself, whom he saw at that moment in Court. Two only of
the Merry Boys, as they were called, were convicted: the worst criminals
escaped; and the Chief justice indignantly told the jurymen that the
guilt of the public ruin lay at their door, [151]
When such disorder prevailed in Wicklow, it is easy to imagine what must
have been the state of districts more barbarous and more remote from the
seat of government. Keating appears to have been the only magistrate who
strenuously exerted himself to put the law in force. Indeed Nugent, the
Chief justice of the highest criminal court of the realm, declared on
the bench at Cork that, without violence and spoliation, the intentions
of the Government could not be carried into effect, and that robbery
must at that conjuncture be tolerated as a necessary evil, [152]
The destruction of property which took place within a few weeks would be
incredible, if it were not attested by witnesses unconnected with each
other and attached to very different interests. There is a close, and
sometimes almost a verbal, agreement between the description given by
Protestants, who, during that reign of terror, escaped, at the hazard
of their lives, to England, and the descriptions given by the envoys,
commissaries, and captains of Lewis. All agreed in declaring that it
would take many years to repair the waste which had been wrought in a
few weeks by the armed peasantry, [153] Some of the Saxon aristocracy
had mansions richly furnished, and sideboards gorgeous with silver bowls
and chargers. All this wealth disappeared. One house, in which there had
been three thousand pounds' worth of plate, was left without a spoon,
[154] But the chief riches of Ireland consisted in cattle. Innumerable
flocks and herds covered that vast expanse of emerald meadow, saturated
with the moisture of the Atlantic. More than one gentleman possessed
twenty thousand sheep and four thousand oxen. The freebooters who now
overspread the country belonged to a class which was accustomed to
live on potatoes and sour whey, and which had always regarded meat as
a luxury reserved for the rich. These men at first revelled in beef and
mutton, as the savage invaders, who of old poured down from the forests
of the north on Italy, revelled in Massic and Falernian wines. The
Protestants described with contemptuous disgust the strange gluttony of
their newly liberated slaves. The carcasses, half raw and half burned
to cinders, sometimes still bleeding, sometimes in a state of loathsome
decay, were torn to pieces and swallowed without salt, bread, or herbs.
Those marauders who preferred boiled meat, being often in want of
kettles, contrived to boil the steer in his own skin. An absurd
tragicomedy is still extant, which was acted in this and the following
year at some low theatre for the amusement of the English populace. A
crowd of half naked savages appeared on the stage, howling a Celtic song
and dancing round an ox. They then proceeded to cut steaks out of the
animal while still alive and to fling the bleeding flesh on the coals.
In truth the barbarity and filthiness of the banquets of the Rapparees
was such as the dramatists of Grub Street could scarcely caricature.
When Lent began, the plunderers generally ceased to devour, but
continued to destroy. A peasant would kill a cow merely in order to get
a pair of brogues. Often a whole flock of sheep, often a herd of fifty
or sixty kine, was slaughtered: the beasts were flayed; the fleeces and
hides were carried away; and the bodies were left to poison the air.
The French ambassador reported to his master that, in six weeks, fifty
thousand horned cattle had been slain in this manner, and were rotting
on the ground all over the country. The number of sheep that were
butchered during the same time was popularly said to have been three or
four hundred thousand, [155]
Any estimate which can now be framed of the value of the property
destroyed during this fearful conflict of races must necessarily be very
inexact. We are not however absolutely without materials for such an
estimate. The Quakers were neither a very numerous nor a very opulent
class. We can hardly suppose that they were more than a fiftieth part of
the Protestant population of Ireland, or that they possessed more than a
fiftieth part of the Protestant wealth of Ireland. They were undoubtedly
better treated than any other Protestant sect. James had always been
partial to them: they own that Tyrconnel did his best to protect them;
and they seem to have found favour even in the sight of the Rapparees,
[156] Yet the Quakers computed their pecuniary losses at a hundred
thousand pounds, [157]
In Leinster, Munster and Connaught, it was utterly impossible for the
English settlers, few as they were and dispersed, to offer any effectual
resistance to this terrible outbreak of the aboriginal population.
Charleville, Mallow, Sligo, fell into the hands of the natives. Bandon,
where the Protestants had mustered in considerable force, was reduced by
Lieutenant General Macarthy, an Irish officer who was descended from one
of the most illustrious Celtic houses, and who had long served, under a
feigned name, in the French Army, [158] The people of Kenmare held
out in their little fastness till they were attacked by three thousand
regular soldiers, and till it was known that several pieces of ordnance
were coming to batter down the turf wall which surrounded the agent's
house. Then at length a capitulation was concluded. The colonists were
suffered to embark in a small vessel scantily supplied with food and
water. They had no experienced navigator on board: but after a voyage
of a fortnight, during which they were crowded together like slaves in
a Guinea ship, and suffered the extremity of thirst and hunger, they
reached Bristol in safety, [159] When such was the fate of the towns, it
was evident that the country seats which the Protestant landowners had
recently fortified in the three southern provinces could no longer be
defended. Many families submitted, delivered up their arms, and
thought themselves happy in escaping with life. But many resolute and
highspirited gentlemen and yeomen were determined to perish rather than
yield. They packed up such valuable property as could easily be carried
away, burned whatever they could not remove, and, well armed and
mounted, set out for those spots in Ulster which were the strongholds of
their race and of their faith. The flower of the Protestant population
of Munster and Connaught found shelter at Enniskillen. Whatever was
bravest and most truehearted in Leinster took the road to Londonderry,
[160]
The spirit of Enniskillen and Londonderry rose higher and higher to
meet the danger. At both places the tidings of what had been done by the
Convention at Westminster were received with transports of joy. William
and Mary were proclaimed at Enniskillen with unanimous enthusiasm,
and with such pomp as the little town could furnish, [161] Lundy, who
commanded at Londonderry, could not venture to oppose himself to the
general sentiment of the citizens and of his own soldiers. He therefore
gave in his adhesion to the new government, and signed a declaration
by which he bound himself to stand by that government, on pain of being
considered a coward and a traitor. A vessel from England soon brought
a commission from William and Mary which confirmed him in his office,
[162]
To reduce the Protestants of Ulster to submission before aid could
arrive from England was now the chief object of Tyrconnel. A great force
was ordered to move northward, under the command of Richard Hamilton.
This man had violated all the obligations which are held most sacred by
gentlemen and soldiers, had broken faith with his friends the Temples,
had forfeited his military parole, and was now not ashamed to take
the field as a general against the government to which he was bound
to render himself up as a prisoner. His march left on the face of the
country traces which the most careless eye could not during many years
fail to discern. His army was accompanied by a rabble, such as Keating
had well compared to the unclean birds of prey which swarm wherever the
scent of carrion is strong. The general professed himself anxious to
save from ruin and outrage all Protestants who remained quietly at their
homes; and he most readily gave them protections tinder his hand. But
these protections proved of no avail; and he was forced to own that,
whatever power he might be able to exercise over his soldiers, he could
not keep order among the mob of campfollowers. The country behind
him was a wilderness; and soon the country before him became equally
desolate. For at the fame of his approach the colonists burned their
furniture, pulled down their houses, and retreated northward. Some
of them attempted to make a stand at Dromore, but were broken and
scattered. Then the flight became wild and tumultuous. The fugitives
broke down the bridges and burned the ferryboats. Whole towns, the seats
of the Protestant population, were left in ruins without one inhabitant.
The people of Omagh destroyed their own dwellings so utterly that no
roof was left to shelter the enemy from the rain and wind. The people of
Cavan migrated in one body to Enniskillen. The day was wet and stormy.
The road was deep in mire. It was a piteous sight to see, mingled with
the armed men, the women and children weeping, famished, and toiling
through the mud up to their knees. All Lisburn fled to Antrim; and, as
the foes drew nearer, all Lisburn and Antrim together came pouring into
Londonderry. Thirty thousand Protestants, of both sexes and of every
age, were crowded behind the bulwarks of the City of Refuge. There, at
length, on the verge of the ocean, hunted to the last asylum, and
baited into a mood in which men may be destroyed, but will not easily be
subjugated, the imperial race turned desperately to bay, [163]
Meanwhile Mountjoy and Rice had arrived in France. Mountjoy was
instantly put under arrest and thrown into the Bastile. James determined
to comply with the invitation which Rice had brought, and applied to
Lewis for the help of a French army. But Lewis, though he showed, as to
all things which concerned the personal dignity and comfort of his
royal guests, a delicacy even romantic, and a liberality approaching to
profusion, was unwilling to send a large body of troops to Ireland.
He saw that France would have to maintain a long war on the Continent
against a formidable coalition: her expenditure must be immense; and,
great as were her resources, he felt it to be important that nothing
should be wasted. He doubtless regarded with sincere commiseration and
good will the unfortunate exiles to whom he had given so princely a
welcome. Yet neither commiseration nor good will could prevent him from
speedily discovering that his brother of England was the dullest and
most perverse of human beings. The folly of James, his incapacity to
read the characters of men and the signs of the times, his obstinacy,
always most offensively displayed when wisdom enjoined concession,
his vacillation, always exhibited most pitiably in emergencies which
required firmness, had made him an outcast from England, and might, if
his counsels were blindly followed, bring great calamities on France.
As a legitimate sovereign expelled by rebels, as a confessor of the true
faith persecuted by heretics, as a near kinsman of the House of Bourbon,
who had seated himself on the hearth of that House, he was entitled to
hospitality, to tenderness, to respect. It was fit that he should have
a stately palace and a spacious forest, that the household troops should
salute him with the highest military honours, that he should have at his
command all the hounds of the Grand Huntsman and all the hawks of the
Grand Falconer. But, when a prince, who, at the head of a great fleet
and army, had lost an empire without striking a blow, undertook to
furnish plans for naval and military expeditions; when a prince, who
had been undone by his profound ignorance of the temper of his own
countrymen, of his own soldiers, of his own domestics, of his own
children, undertook to answer for the zeal and fidelity of the Irish
people, whose language he could not speak, and on whose land he had
never set his foot; it was necessary to receive his suggestions with
caution. Such were the sentiments of Lewis; and in these sentiments he
was confirmed by his Minister of War Louvois, who, on private as well as
on public grounds, was unwilling that James should be accompanied by
a large military force. Louvois hated Lauzun. Lauzun was favourite at
Saint Germains. He wore the garter, a badge of honour which has very
seldom been conferred on aliens who were not sovereign princes. It was
believed indeed at the French Court that, in order to distinguish him
from the other knights of the most illustrious of European orders, he
had been decorated with that very George which Charles the First had,
on the scaffold, put into the hands of Juxon, [164] Lauzun had been
encouraged to hope that, if French forces were sent to Ireland, he
should command them; and this ambitious hope Louvois was bent on
disappointing, [165]
An army was therefore for the present refused; but every thing else was
granted. The Brest fleet was ordered to be in readiness to sail. Arms
for ten thousand men and great quantities of ammunition were put on
board. About four hundred captains, lieutenants, cadets and gunners were
selected for the important service of organizing and disciplining the
Irish levies. The chief command was held by a veteran warrior, the
Count of Rosen. Under him were Maumont, who held the rank of lieutenant
general, and a brigadier named Pusignan. Five hundred thousand crowns in
gold, equivalent to about a hundred and twelve thousand pounds sterling,
were sent to Brest, [166] For James's personal comforts provision was
made with anxiety resembling that of a tender mother equipping her
son for a first campaign. The cabin furniture, the camp furniture, the
tents, the bedding, the plate, were luxurious and superb. Nothing,
which could be agreeable or useful to the exile was too costly for the
munificence, or too trifling for the attention, of his gracious and
splendid host. On the fifteenth of February, James paid a farewell visit
to Versailles. He was conducted round the buildings and plantations with
every mark of respect and kindness. The fountains played in his honour.
It was the season of the Carnival; and never had the vast palace and
the sumptuous gardens presented a gayer aspect. In the evening the
two kings, after a long and earnest conference in private, made their
appearance before a splendid circle of lords and ladies. "I hope," said
Lewis, in his noblest and most winning manner, "that we are about to
part, never to meet again in this world. That is the best wish that I
can form for you. But, if any evil chance should force you to return,
be assured that you will find me to the last such as you have found me
hitherto." On the seventeenth Lewis paid in return a farewell visit to
Saint Germains. At the moment of the parting embrace he said, with
his most amiable smile: "We have forgotten one thing, a cuirass for
yourself. You shall have mine." The cuirass was brought, and suggested
to the wits of the Court ingenious allusions to the Vulcanian panoply
which Achilles lent to his feebler friend. James set out for Brest; and
his wife, overcome with sickness and sorrow, shut herself up with her
child to weep and pray, [167]
James was accompanied or speedily followed by several of his own
subjects, among whom the most distinguished were his son Berwick,
Cartwright Bishop of Chester, Powis, Dover, and Melfort. Of all the
retinue, none was so odious to the people of Great Britain as Melfort.
He was an apostate: he was believed by many to be an insincere apostate;
and the insolent, arbitrary and menacing language of his state papers
disgusted even the Jacobites. He was therefore a favourite with his
master: for to James unpopularity, obstinacy, and implacability were the
greatest recommendations that a statesman could have.
What Frenchman should attend the King of England in the character of
ambassador had been the subject of grave deliberation at Versailles.
Barillon could not be passed over without a marked slight. But his
selfindulgent habits, his want of energy, and, above all, the credulity
with which he had listened to the professions of Sunderland, had made
an unfavourable impression on the mind of Lewis. What was to be done
in Ireland was not work for a trifler or a dupe. The agent of France in
that kingdom must be equal to much more than the ordinary functions of
an envoy. It would be his right and his duty to offer advice touching
every part of the political and military administration of the country
in which he would represent the most powerful and the most beneficent
of allies. Barillon was therefore passed over. He affected to bear his
disgrace with composure. His political career, though it had brought
great calamities both on the House of Stuart and on the House of
Bourbon, had been by no means unprofitable to himself. He was old, he
said: he was fat: he did not envy younger men the honour of living
on potatoes and whiskey among the Irish bogs; he would try to console
himself with partridges, with champagne, and with the society of the
wittiest men and prettiest women of Paris. It was rumoured, however that
he was tortured by painful emotions which he was studious to conceal:
his health and spirits failed; and he tried to find consolation in
religious duties. Some people were much edified by the piety of the old
voluptuary: but others attributed his death, which took place not long
after his retreat from public life, to shame and vexation, [168]
The Count of Avaux, whose sagacity had detected all the plans of
William, and who had vainly recommended a policy which would probably
have frustrated them, was the man on whom the choice of Lewis fell. In
abilities Avaux had no superior among the numerous able diplomatists
whom his country then possessed. His demeanour was singularly pleasing,
his person handsome, his temper bland. His manners and conversation
were those of a gentleman who had been bred in the most polite and
magnificent of all Courts, who had represented that Court both in
Roman Catholic and Protestant countries, and who had acquired in his
wanderings the art of catching the tone of any society into which
chance might throw him. He was eminently vigilant and adroit, fertile in
resources, and skilful in discovering the weak parts of a character.
His own character, however, was not without its weak parts. The
consciousness that he was of plebeian origin was the torment of
his life. He pined for nobility with a pining at once pitiable and
ludicrous. Able, experienced and accomplished as he was, he sometimes,
under the influence of this mental disease, descended to the level of
Moliere's Jourdain, and entertained malicious observers with scenes
almost as laughable as that in which the honest draper was made a
Mamamouchi, [169] It would have been well if this had been the worst.
But it is not too much to say that of the difference between right and
wrong Avaux had no more notion than a brute. One sentiment was to him
in the place of religion and morality, a superstitious and intolerant
devotion to the Crown which he served. This sentiment pervades all his
despatches, and gives a colour to all his thoughts and words. Nothing
that tended to promote the interest of the French monarchy seemed to him
a crime. Indeed he appears to have taken it for granted that not only
Frenchmen, but all human beings, owed a natural allegiance to the House
of Bourbon, and that whoever hesitated to sacrifice the happiness and
freedom of his own native country to the glory of that House was a
traitor. While he resided at the Hague, he always designated those
Dutchmen who had sold themselves to France as the well intentioned
party. In the letters which he wrote from Ireland, the same feeling
appears still more strongly. He would have been a more sagacious
politician if he had sympathized more with those feelings of moral
approbation and disapprobation which prevail among the vulgar. For his
own indifference to all considerations of justice and mercy was such
that, in his schemes, he made no allowance for the consciences and
sensibilities of his neighbours. More than once he deliberately
recommended wickedness so horrible that wicked men recoiled from it with
indignation. But they could not succeed even in making their scruples
intelligible to him. To every remonstrance he listened with a cynical
sneer, wondering within himself whether those who lectured him were such
fools as they professed to be, or were only shamming.
Such was the man whom Lewis selected to be the companion and monitor of
James. Avaux was charged to open, if possible, a communication with the
malecontents in the English Parliament; and he was authorised to expend,
if necessary, a hundred thousand crowns among them.
James arrived at Brest on the fifth of March, embarked there on board
of a man of war called the Saint Michael, and sailed within forty-eight
hours. He had ample time, however, before his departure, to exhibit some
of the faults by which he had lost England and Scotland, and by which he
was about to lose Ireland. Avaux wrote from the harbour of Brest that it
would not be easy to conduct any important business in concert with the
King of England. His Majesty could not keep any secret from any body.
The very foremast men of the Saint Michael had already heard him
say things which ought to have been reserved for the ears of his
confidential advisers, [170]
The voyage was safely and quietly performed; and, on the afternoon of
the twelfth of March, James landed in the harbour of Kinsale. By the
Roman Catholic population he was received with shouts of unfeigned
transport. The few Protestants who remained in that part of the country
joined in greeting him, and perhaps not insincerely. For, though an
enemy of their religion, he was not an enemy of their nation; and they
might reasonably hope that the worst king would show somewhat more
respect for law and property than had been shown by the Merry Boys and
Rapparees. The Vicar of Kinsale was among those who went to pay
their duty: he was presented by the Bishop of Chester, and was not
ungraciously received, [171]
James learned that his cause was prospering. In the three southern
provinces of Ireland the Protestants were disarmed, and were so
effectually bowed down by terror that he had nothing to apprehend from
them. In the North there was some show of resistance: but Hamilton was
marching against the malecontents; and there was little doubt that they
would easily be crushed. A day was spent at Kinsale in putting the arms
and ammunition out of reach of danger. Horses sufficient to carry a few
travellers were with some difficulty procured; and, on the fourteenth of
March, James proceeded to Cork, [172]
We should greatly err if we imagined that the road by which he entered
that city bore any resemblance to the stately approach which strikes the
traveller of the nineteenth century with admiration. At present Cork,
though deformed by many miserable relics of a former age, holds no mean
place among the ports of the empire. The shipping is more than half what
the shipping of London was at the time of the Revolution. The customs
exceed the whole revenue which the whole kingdom of Ireland, in the
most peaceful and prosperous times, yielded to the Stuarts. The town
is adorned by broad and well built streets, by fair gardens, by a
Corinthian portico which would do honour to Palladio, and by a Gothic
college worthy to stand in the High Street of Oxford. In 1689, the city
extended over about one tenth part of the space which it now covers,
and was intersected by muddy streams, which have long been concealed
by arches and buildings. A desolate marsh, in which the sportsman who
pursued the waterfowl sank deep in water and mire at every step,
covered the area now occupied by stately buildings, the palaces of
great commercial societies. There was only a single street in which two
wheeled carriages could pass each other. From this street diverged to
right and left alleys squalid and noisome beyond the belief of those
who have formed their notions of misery from the most miserable parts
of Saint Giles's and Whitechapel. One of these alleys, called, and, by
comparison, justly called, Broad Lane, is about ten feet wide. From
such places, now seats of hunger and pestilence, abandoned to the most
wretched of mankind, the citizens poured forth to welcome James. He was
received with military honours by Macarthy, who held the chief command
in Munster.
It was impossible for the King to proceed immediately to Dublin; for the
southern counties had been so completely laid waste by the banditti whom
the priests had called to arms, that the means of locomotion were not
easily to be procured. Horses had become rarities: in a large district
there were only two carts; and those Avaux pronounced good for nothing.
Some days elapsed before the money which had been brought from France,
though no very formidable mass, could be dragged over the few miles
which separated Cork from Kinsale, [173]
While the King and his Council were employed in trying to procure
carriages and beasts, Tyrconnel arrived from Dublin. He held encouraging
language. The opposition of Enniskillen he seems to have thought
deserving of little consideration. Londonderry, he said, was the only
important post held by the Protestants; and even Londonderry would not,
in his judgment, hold out many days.
At length James was able to leave Cork for the capital. On the road,
the shrewd and observant Avaux made many remarks. The first part of the
journey was through wild highlands, where it was not strange that there
should be few traces of art and industry. But, from Kilkenny to the
gates of Dublin, the path of the travellers lay over gently undulating
ground rich with natural verdure. That fertile district should have been
covered with flocks and herds, orchards and cornfields: but it was an
unfilled and unpeopled desert. Even in the towns the artisans were very
few. Manufactured articles were hardly to be found, and if found could
be procured only at immense prices, [174] The truth was that most of the
English inhabitants had fled, and that art, industry, and capital had
fled with them.
James received on his progress numerous marks of the goodwill of the
peasantry; but marks such as, to men bred in the courts of France
and England, had an uncouth and ominous appearance. Though very few
labourers were seen at work in the fields, the road was lined by
Rapparees armed with skeans, stakes, and half pikes, who crowded to look
upon the deliverer of their race. The highway along which he travelled
presented the aspect of a street in which a fair is held. Pipers came
forth to play before him in a style which was not exactly that of the
French opera; and the villagers danced wildly to the music. Long frieze
mantles, resembling those which Spenser had, a century before, described
as meet beds for rebels, and apt cloaks for thieves, were spread along
the path which the cavalcade was to tread; and garlands, in which
cabbage stalks supplied the place of laurels, were offered to the royal
hand. The women insisted on kissing his Majesty; but it should seem that
they bore little resemblance to their posterity; for this compliment
was so distasteful to him that he ordered his retinue to keep them at a
distance, [175]
On the twenty-fourth of March he entered Dublin. That city was then,
in extent and population, the second in the British isles. It contained
between six and seven thousand houses, and probably above thirty
thousand inhabitants, [176] In wealth and beauty, however, Dublin was
inferior to many English towns. Of the graceful and stately public
buildings which now adorn both sides of the Liffey scarcely one had been
even projected. The College, a very different edifice from that which
now stands on the same site, lay quite out of the city, [177] The ground
which is at present occupied by Leinster House and Charlemont House,
by Sackville Street and Merrion Square, was open meadow. Most of the
dwellings were built of timber, and have long given place to more
substantial edifices. The Castle had in 1686 been almost uninhabitable.
Clarendon had complained that he knew of no gentleman in Pall Mall who
was not more conveniently and handsomely lodged than the Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland. No public ceremony could be performed in a becoming manner
under the Viceregal roof. Nay, in spite of constant glazing and tiling,
the rain perpetually drenched the apartments, [178] Tyrconnel, since he
became Lord Deputy, had erected a new building somewhat more commodious.
To this building the King was conducted in state through the southern
part of the city. Every exertion had been made to give an air of
festivity and splendour to the district which he was to traverse. The
streets, which were generally deep in mud, were strewn with gravel.
Boughs and flowers were scattered over the path.
Tapestry and arras hung from the windows of those who could afford to
exhibit such finery. The poor supplied the place of rich stuffs with
blankets and coverlids. In one place was stationed a troop of friars
with a cross; in another a company of forty girls dressed in white and
carrying nosegays. Pipers and harpers played "The King shall enjoy
his own again." The Lord Deputy carried the sword of state before his
master. The Judges, the Heralds, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, appeared
in all the pomp of office. Soldiers were drawn up on the right and left
to keep the passages clear. A procession of twenty coaches belonging to
public functionaries was mustered. Before the Castle gate, the King was
met by the host under a canopy borne by four bishops of his church. At
the sight he fell on his knees, and passed some time in devotion. He
then rose and was conducted to the chapel of his palace, once--such are
the vicissitudes of human things--the riding house of Henry Cromwell.
A Te Deum was performed in honour of his Majesty's arrival. The next
morning he held a Privy Council, discharged Chief Justice Keating from
any further attendance at the board, ordered Avaux and Bishop Cartwright
to be sworn in, and issued a proclamation convoking a Parliament to meet
at Dublin on the seventh of May, [179]
When the news that James had arrived in Ireland reached London, the
sorrow and alarm were general, and were mingled with serious discontent.
The multitude, not making sufficient allowance for the difficulties by
which William was encompassed on every side, loudly blamed his neglect.
To all the invectives of the ignorant and malicious he opposed, as was
his wont, nothing but immutable gravity and the silence of profound
disdain. But few minds had received from nature a temper so firm as his;
and still fewer had undergone so long and so rigorous a discipline.
The reproaches which had no power to shake his fortitude, tried from
childhood upwards by both extremes of fortune, inflicted a deadly wound
on a less resolute heart.
While all the coffeehouses were unanimously resolving that a fleet and
army ought to have been long before sent to Dublin, and wondering how so
renowned a politician as his Majesty could have been duped by Hamilton
and Tyrconnel, a gentleman went down to the Temple Stairs, called a
boat, and desired to be pulled to Greenwich. He took the cover of a
letter from his pocket, scratched a few lines with a pencil, and laid
the paper on the seat with some silver for his fare. As the boat passed
under the dark central arch of London Bridge, he sprang into the water
and disappeared. It was found that he had written these words: "My
folly in undertaking what I could not execute hath done the King great
prejudice which cannot be stopped--No easier way for me than this--May
his undertakings prosper--May he have a blessing." There was no
signature; but the body was soon found, and proved to be that of
John Temple. He was young and highly accomplished: he was heir to an
honourable name; he was united to an amiable woman: he was possessed
of an ample fortune; and he had in prospect the greatest honours of the
state. It does not appear that the public had been at all aware to what
an extent he was answerable for the policy which had brought so much
obloquy on the government. The King, stern as he was, had far too
great a heart to treat an error as a crime. He had just appointed the
unfortunate young man Secretary at War; and the commission was actually
preparing. It is not improbable that the cold magnanimity of the master
was the very thing which made the remorse of the servant insupportable,
[180]
But, great as were the vexations which William had to undergo, those
by which the temper of his father-in-law was at this time tried were
greater still. No court in Europe was distracted by more quarrels and
intrigues than were to be found within the walls of Dublin Castle. The
numerous petty cabals which sprang from the cupidity, the jealousy, and
the malevolence of individuals scarcely deserve mention. But there was
one cause of discord which has been too little noticed, and which is
the key to much that has been thought mysterious in the history of those
times.
Between English Jacobitism and Irish Jacobitism there was nothing in
common. The English Jacobite was animated by a strong enthusiasm for the
family of Stuart; and in his zeal for the interests of that family he
too often forgot the interests of the state. Victory, peace, prosperity,
seemed evils to the stanch nonjuror of our island if they tended to make
usurpation popular and permanent. Defeat, bankruptcy, famine, invasion,
were, in his view, public blessings, if they increased the chance of
a restoration. He would rather have seen his country the last of the
nations under James the Second or James the Third, than the mistress of
the sea, the umpire between contending potentates, the seat of arts, the
hive of industry, under a prince of the House of Nassau or of Brunswick.
The sentiments of the Irish Jacobite were very different, and, it must
in candour be acknowledged, were of a nobler character. The fallen
dynasty was nothing to him. He had not, like a Cheshire or Shropshire
cavalier, been taught from his cradle to consider loyalty to that
dynasty as the first duty of a Christian and a gentleman. All his family
traditions, all the lessons taught him by his foster mother and by his
priests, had been of a very different tendency. He had been brought up
to regard the foreign sovereigns of his native land with the feeling
with which the Jew regarded Caesar, with which the Scot regarded Edward
the First, with which the Castilian regarded Joseph Buonaparte, with
which the Pole regards the Autocrat of the Russias. It was the boast of
the highborn Milesian that, from the twelfth century to the seventeenth,
every generation of his family had been in arms against the English
crown. His remote ancestors had contended with Fitzstephen and De Burgh.
His greatgrandfather had cloven down the soldiers of Elizabeth in the
battle of the Blackwater. His grandfather had conspired with O'Donnel
against James the First. His father had fought under Sir Phelim O'Neill
against Charles the First. The confiscation of the family estate had
been ratified by an Act of Charles the Second. No Puritan, who had been
cited before the High Commission by Laud, who had charged under Cromwell
at Naseby, who had been prosecuted under the Conventicle Act, and who
had been in hiding on account of the Rye House Plot, bore less affection
to the House of Stuart than the O'Haras and Macmahons, on whose support
the fortunes of that House now seemed to depend.
The fixed purpose of these men was to break the foreign yoke, to
exterminate the Saxon colony, to sweep away the Protestant Church, and
to restore the soil to its ancient proprietors. To obtain these ends
they would without the smallest scruple have risen up against James;
and to obtain these ends they rose up for him. The Irish Jacobites,
therefore, were not at all desirous that he should again reign at
Whitehall: for they could not but be aware that a Sovereign of Ireland,
who was also Sovereign of England, would not, and, even if he would,
could not, long administer the government of the smaller and poorer
kingdom in direct opposition to the feeling of the larger and richer.
Their real wish was that the Crowns might be completely separated, and
that their island might, whether under James or without James they cared
little, form a distinct state under the powerful protection of France.
While one party in the Council at Dublin regarded James merely as a tool
to be employed for achieving the deliverance of Ireland, another party
regarded Ireland merely as a tool to be employed for effecting the
restoration of James. To the English and Scotch lords and gentlemen who
had accompanied him from Brest, the island in which they sojourned was
merely a stepping stone by which they were to reach Great Britain.
They were still as much exiles as when they were at Saint Germains; and
indeed they thought Saint Germains a far more pleasant place of exile
than Dublin Castle. They had no sympathy with the native population of
the remote and half barbarous region to which a strange chance had led
them. Nay, they were bound by common extraction and by common language
to that colony which it was the chief object of the native population
to root out. They had indeed, like the great body of their countrymen,
always regarded the aboriginal Irish with very unjust contempt, as
inferior to other European nations, not only in acquired knowledge, but
in natural intelligence and courage; as born Gibeonites who had been
liberally treated, in being permitted to hew wood and to draw water for
a wiser and mightier people. These politicians also thought,--and here
they were undoubtedly in the right,--that, if their master's object was
to recover the throne of England, it would be madness in him to give
himself up to the guidance of the O's and the Macs who regarded England
with mortal enmity. A law declaring the crown of Ireland independent, a
law transferring mitres, glebes, and tithes from the Protestant to the
Roman Catholic Church, a law transferring ten millions of acres from
Saxons to Celts, would doubtless be loudly applauded in Clare and
Tipperary. But what would be the effect of such laws at Westminster?
What at Oxford? It would be poor policy to alienate such men as
Clarendon and Beaufort, Ken and Sherlock, in order to obtain the
applause of the Rapparees of the Bog of Allen, [181]
Thus the English and Irish factions in the Council at Dublin were
engaged in a dispute which admitted of no compromise. Avaux meanwhile
looked on that dispute from a point of view entirely his own. His object
was neither the emancipation of Ireland nor the restoration of James,
but the greatness of the French monarchy. In what way that object might
be best attained was a very complicated problem. Undoubtedly a French
statesman could not but wish for a counterrevolution in England. The
effect of such a counterrevolution would be that the power which was
the most formidable enemy of France would become her firmest ally, that
William would sink into insignificance, and that the European coalition
of which he was the chief would be dissolved. But what chance was
there of such a counterrevolution? The English exiles indeed, after
the fashion of exiles, confidently anticipated a speedy return to their
country. James himself loudly boasted that his subjects on the other
side of the water, though they had been misled for a moment by the
specious names of religion, liberty, and property, were warmly attached
to him, and would rally round him as soon as he appeared among them. But
the wary envoy tried in vain to discover any foundation for these hopes.
He was certain that they were not warranted by any intelligence which
had arrived from any part of Great Britain; and he considered them as
the mere daydreams of a feeble mind. He thought it unlikely that the
usurper, whose ability and resolution he had, during an unintermitted
conflict of ten years, learned to appreciate, would easily part with the
great prize which had been won by such strenuous exertions and profound
combinations. It was therefore necessary to consider what arrangements
would be most beneficial to France, on the supposition that it proved
impossible to dislodge William from England. And it was evident that,
if William could not be dislodged from England, the arrangement most
beneficial to France would be that which had been contemplated eighteen
months before when James had no prospect of a male heir. Ireland must
be severed from the English crown, purged of the English colonists,
reunited to the Church of Rome, placed under the protection of the House
of Bourbon, and made, in every thing but name, a French province.
In war, her resources would be absolutely at the command of her Lord
Paramount. She would furnish his army with recruits. She would furnish
his navy with fine harbours commanding all the great western outlets
of the English trade. The strong national and religious antipathy
with which her aboriginal population regarded the inhabitants of the
neighbouring island would be a sufficient guarantee for their fidelity
to that government which could alone protect her against the Saxon.
On the whole, therefore, it appeared to Avaux that, of the two parties
into which the Council at Dublin was divided, the Irish party was that
which it was for the interest of France to support. He accordingly
connected himself closely with the chiefs of that party, obtained from
them the fullest avowals of all that they designed, and was soon able to
report to his government that neither the gentry nor the common people
were at all unwilling to become French, [182]
The views of Louvois, incomparably the greatest statesman that France
had produced since Richelieu, seem to have entirely agreed with those of
Avaux. The best thing, Louvois wrote, that King James could do would
be to forget that he had reigned in Great Britain, and to think only
of putting Ireland into a good condition, and of establishing himself
firmly there. Whether this were the true interest of the House of Stuart
may be doubted. But it was undoubtedly the true interest of the House of
Bourbon, [183]
About the Scotch and English exiles, and especially about Melfort,
Avaux constantly expressed himself with an asperity hardly to have been
expected from a man of so much sense and experience. Melfort was in
a singularly unfortunate position. He was a renegade: he was a mortal
enemy of the liberties of his country: he was of a bad and tyrannical
nature; and yet he was, in some sense, a patriot. The consequence was
that he was more universally detested than any man of his time. For,
while his apostasy and his arbitrary maxims of government made him the
abhorrence of England and Scotland, his anxiety for the dignity and
integrity of the empire made him the abhorrence of the Irish and of the
French.
The first question to be decided was whether James should remain at
Dublin, or should put himself at the head of his army in Ulster. On this
question the Irish and British factions joined battle. Reasons of no
great weight were adduced on both sides; for neither party ventured to
speak out. The point really in issue was whether the King should be
in Irish or in British hands. If he remained at Dublin, it would be
scarcely possible for him to withhold his assent from any bill presented
to him by the Parliament which he had summoned to meet there. He would
be forced to plunder, perhaps to attaint, innocent Protestant gentlemen
and clergymen by hundreds; and he would thus do irreparable mischief to
his cause on the other side of Saint George's Channel. If he repaired to
Ulster, he would be within a few hours' sail of Great Britain. As soon
as Londonderry had fallen, and it was universally supposed that the fall
of Londonderry could not be long delayed, he might cross the sea
with part of his forces, and land in Scotland, where his friends were
supposed to be numerous. When he was once on British ground, and in the
midst of British adherents, it would no longer be in the power of the
Irish to extort his consent to their schemes of spoliation and revenge.
The discussions in the Council were long and warm. Tyrconnel, who had
just been created a Duke, advised his master to stay in Dublin. Melfort
exhorted his Majesty to set out for Ulster. Avaux exerted all
his influence in support of Tyrconnel; but James, whose personal
inclinations were naturally on the British side of the question,
determined to follow the advice of Melfort, [184] Avaux was deeply
mortified. In his official letters he expressed with great acrimony his
contempt for the King's character and understanding. On Tyrconnel, who
had said that he despaired of the fortunes of James, and that the real
question was between the King of France and the Prince of Orange,
the ambassador pronounced what was meant to be a warm eulogy, but
may perhaps be more properly called an invective. "If he were a born
Frenchman he could not be more zealous for the interests of France."
[185] The conduct of Melfort, on the other hand, was the subject of an
invective which much resembles eulogy: "He is neither a good Irishman
nor a good Frenchman. All his affections are set on his own country."
[186]
Since the King was determined to go northward, Avaux did not choose to
be left behind. The royal party set out, leaving Tyrconnel in charge
at Dublin, and arrived at Charlemont on the thirteenth of April. The
journey was a strange one. The country all along the road had been
completely deserted by the industrious population, and laid waste by
bands of robbers. "This," said one of the French officers, "is like
travelling through the deserts of Arabia." [187] Whatever effects the
colonists had been able to remove were at Londonderry or Enniskillen.
The rest had been stolen or destroyed. Avaux informed his court that he
had not been able to get one truss of hay for his horses without sending
five or six miles. No labourer dared bring any thing for sale lest some
marauder should lay hands on it by the way. The ambassador was put one
night into a miserable taproom full of soldiers smoking, another night
into a dismantled house without windows or shutters to keep out the
rain. At Charlemont a bag of oatmeal was with great difficulty, and as a
matter of favour, procured for the French legation. There was no wheaten
bread, except at the table of the King, who had brought a little flour
from Dublin, and to whom Avaux had lent a servant who knew how to bake.
Those who were honoured with an invitation to the royal table had their
bread and wine measured out to them. Every body else, however high in
rank, ate horsecorn, and drank water or detestable beer, made with oats
instead of barley, and flavoured with some nameless herb as a substitute
for hops, [188] Yet report said that the country between Charlemont
and Strabane was even more desolate than the country between Dublin and
Charlemont. It was impossible to carry a large stock of provisions. The
roads were so bad and the horses so weak, that the baggage waggons
had all been left far behind. The chief officers of the army were
consequently in want of necessaries; and the ill-humour which was the
natural effect of these privations was increased by the insensibility
of James, who seemed not to be aware that every body about him was not
perfectly comfortable, [189]
On the fourteenth of April the King and his train proceeded to Omagh.
The rain fell: the wind blew: the horses could scarcely make their
way through the mud, and in the face of the storm; and the road was
frequently intersected by torrents which might almost be called rivers.
The travellers had to pass several fords where the water was breast
high. Some of the party fainted from fatigue and hunger. All around lay
a frightful wilderness. In a journey of forty miles Avaux counted only
three miserable cabins. Every thing else was rock, bog, and moor. When
at length the travellers reached Omagh, they found it in ruins. The
Protestants, who were the majority of the inhabitants, had abandoned it,
leaving not a wisp of straw nor a cask of liquor. The windows had been
broken: the chimneys had been beaten in: the very locks and bolts of the
doors had been carried away, [190]
Avaux had never ceased to press the King to return to Dublin; but these
expostulations had hitherto produced no effect. The obstinacy of
James, however, was an obstinacy which had nothing in common with manly
resolution, and which, though proof to argument, was easily shaken by
caprice. He received at Omagh, early on the sixteenth of April, letters
which alarmed him. He learned that a strong body of Protestants was in
arms at Strabane, and that English ships of war had been seen near the
mouth of Lough Foyle. In one minute three messages were sent to summon
Avaux to the ruinous chamber in which the royal bed had been prepared.
There James, half dressed, and with the air of a man bewildered by
some great shock, announced his resolution to hasten back instantly
to Dublin. Avaux listened, wondered, and approved. Melfort seemed
prostrated by despair. The travellers retraced their steps, and, late in
the evening, reached Charlemont. There the King received despatches very
different from those which had terrified him a few hours before.
The Protestants who had assembled near Strabane had been attacked by
Hamilton. Under a truehearted leader they would doubtless have stood
their ground. But Lundy, who commanded them, had told them that all was
lost, had ordered them to shift for themselves, and had set them the
example of flight, [191] They had accordingly retired in confusion to
Londonderry. The King's correspondents pronounced it to be impossible
that Londonderry should hold out. His Majesty had only to appear before
the gates; and they would instantly fly open. James now changed his
mind again, blamed himself for having been persuaded to turn his face
southward, and, though it was late in the evening, called for his
horses. The horses were in a miserable plight; but, weary and half
starved as they were, they were saddled. Melfort, completely victorious,
carried off his master to the camp. Avaux, after remonstrating to no
purpose, declared that he was resolved to return to Dublin. It may
be suspected that the extreme discomfort which he had undergone had
something to do with this resolution. For complaints of that discomfort
make up a large part of his letters; and, in truth, a life passed in the
palaces of Italy, in the neat parlours and gardens of Holland, and in
the luxurious pavilions which adorned the suburbs of Paris, was a bad
preparation for the ruined hovels of Ulster. He gave, however, to his
master a more weighty reason for refusing to proceed northward. The
journey of James had been undertaken in opposition to the unanimous
sense of the Irish, and had excited great alarm among them. They
apprehended that he meant to quit them, and to make a descent on
Scotland. They knew that, once landed in Great Britain, he would have
neither the will nor the power to do those things which they most
desired. Avaux, by refusing to proceed further, gave them an assurance
that, whoever might betray them, France would be their constant friend,
[192]
While Avaux was on his way to Dublin, James hastened towards
Londonderry. He found his army concentrated a few miles south of the
city. The French generals who had sailed with him from Brest were in his
train; and two of them, Rosen and Maumont, were placed over the head of
Richard Hamilton, [193] Rosen was a native of Livonia, who had in
early youth become a soldier of fortune, who had fought his way to
distinction, and who, though utterly destitute of the graces and
accomplishments characteristic of the Court of Versailles, was
nevertheless high in favour there. His temper was savage: his manners
were coarse: his language was a strange jargon compounded of various
dialects of French and German. Even those who thought best of him, and
who maintained that his rough exterior covered some good qualities,
owned that his looks were against him, and that it would be unpleasant
to meet such a figure in the dusk at the corner of a wood, [194] The
little that is known of Maumont is to his honour.
In the camp it was generally expected that Londonderry would fall
without a blow. Rosen confidently predicted that the mere sight of
the Irish army would terrify the garrison into submission. But Richard
Hamilton, who knew the temper of the colonists better, had misgivings.
The assailants were sure of one important ally within the walls. Lundy,
the Governor, professed the Protestant religion, and had joined in
proclaiming William and Mary; but he was in secret communication with
the enemies of his Church and of the Sovereigns to whom he had sworn
lealty. Some have suspected that he was a concealed Jacobite, and that
he had affected to acquiesce in the Revolution only in order that he
might be better able to assist in bringing about a Restoration: but
it is probable that his conduct is rather to be attributed to
faintheartedness and poverty of spirit than to zeal for any public
cause. He seems to have thought resistance hopeless; and in truth, to
a military eye, the defences of Londonderry appeared contemptible.
The fortifications consisted of a simple wall overgrown with grass and
weeds: there was no ditch even before the gates: the drawbridges had
long been neglected: the chains were rusty and could scarcely be used:
the parapets and towers were built after a fashion which might well
move disciples of Vauban to laughter; and these feeble defences were on
almost every side commanded by heights. Indeed those who laid out the
city had never meant that it should be able to stand a regular siege,
and had contented themselves with throwing up works sufficient to
protect the inhabitants against a tumultuary attack of the Celtic
peasantry. Avaux assured Louvois that a single French battalion would
easily storm such defences. Even if the place should, notwithstanding
all disadvantages, be able to repel a large army directed by the science
and experience of generals who had served under Conde and Turenne,
hunger must soon bring the contest to an end. The stock of provisions
was small; and the population had been swollen to seven or eight times
the ordinary number by a multitude of colonists flying from the rage of
the natives, [195]
Lundy, therefore, from the time when the Irish army entered Ulster,
seems to have given up all thought of serious resistance, He talked so
despondingly that the citizens and his own soldiers murmured against
him. He seemed, they said, to be bent on discouraging them. Meanwhile
the enemy drew daily nearer and nearer; and it was known that James
himself was coming to take the command of his forces.
Just at this moment a glimpse of hope appeared. On the fourteenth of
April ships from England anchored in the bay. They had on board two
regiments which had been sent, under the command of a Colonel named
Cunningham, to reinforce the garrison. Cunningham and several of his
officers went on shore and conferred with Lundy. Lundy dissuaded them
from landing their men. The place, he said, could not hold out. To throw
more troops into it would therefore be worse than useless: for the more
numerous the garrison, the more prisoners would fall into the hands of
the enemy. The best thing that the two regiments could do would be to
sail back to England. He meant, he said, to withdraw himself privately:
and the inhabitants must then try to make good terms for themselves.
He went through the form of holding a council of war; but from this
council he excluded all those officers of the garrison whose sentiments
he knew to be different from his own. Some, who had ordinarily been
summoned on such occasions, and who now came uninvited, were thrust out
of the room. Whatever the Governor said was echoed by his creatures.
Cunningham and Cunningham's companions could scarcely venture to oppose
their opinion to that of a person whose local knowledge was necessarily
far superior to theirs, and whom they were by their instructions
directed to obey. One brave soldier murmured. "Understand this," he
said, "to give up Londonderry is to give up Ireland." But his objections
were contemptuously overruled, [196] The meeting broke up. Cunningham
and his officers returned to the ships, and made preparations for
departing. Meanwhile Lundy privately sent a messenger to the head
quarters of the enemy, with assurances that the city should be peaceably
surrendered on the first summons.
But as soon as what had passed in the council of war was whispered about
the streets, the spirit of the soldiers and citizens swelled up high and
fierce against the dastardly and perfidious chief who had betrayed them.
Many of his own officers declared that they no longer thought themselves
bound to obey him. Voices were heard threatening, some that his brains
should be blown out, some that he should be hanged on the walls. A
deputation was sent to Cunningham imploring him to assume the command.
He excused himself on the plausible ground that his orders were to
take directions in all things from the Governor, [197] Meanwhile it was
rumoured that the persons most in Lundy's confidence were stealing
out of the town one by one. Long after dusk on the evening of the
seventeenth it was found that the gates were open and that the keys had
disappeared. The officers who made the discovery took on themselves
to change the passwords and to double the guards. The night, however,
passed over without any assault, [198]
After some anxious hours the day broke. The Irish, with James at their
head, were now within four miles of the city. A tumultuous council of
the chief inhabitants was called. Some of them vehemently reproached the
Governor to his face with his treachery. He had sold them, they cried,
to their deadliest enemy: he had refused admission to the force which
good King William had sent to defend them. While the altercation was
at the height, the sentinels who paced the ramparts announced that the
vanguard of the hostile army was in sight. Lundy had given orders that
there should be no firing; but his authority was at an end. Two gallant
soldiers, Major Henry Baker and Captain Adam Murray, called the people
to arms. They were assisted by the eloquence of an aged clergyman,
George Walker, rector of the parish of Donaghmore, who had, with many
of his neighbours, taken refuge in Londonderry. The whole of the crowded
city was moved by one impulse. Soldiers, gentlemen, yeomen, artisans,
rushed to the walls and manned the guns. James, who, confident of
success, had approached within a hundred yards of the southern gate,
was received with a shout of "No surrender," and with a fire from the
nearest bastion. An officer of his staff fell dead by his side. The
King and his attendants made all haste to get out of reach of the cannon
balls. Lundy, who was now in imminent danger of being torn limb from
limb by those whom he had betrayed, hid himself in an inner chamber.
There he lay during the day, and at night, with the generous and politic
connivance of Murray and Walker, made his escape in the disguise of a
porter, [199] The part of the wall from which he let himself down is
still pointed out; and people still living talk of having tasted the
fruit of a pear tree which assisted him in his descent. His name is, to
this day, held in execration by the Protestants of the North of Ireland;
and his effigy was long, and perhaps still is, annually hung and burned
by them with marks of abhorrence similar to those which in England are
appropriated to Guy Faux.
And now Londonderry was left destitute of all military and of all civil
government. No man in the town had a right to command any other: the
defences were weak: the provisions were scanty: an incensed tyrant and
a great army were at the gates. But within was that which has often,
in desperate extremities, retrieved the fallen fortunes of nations.
Betrayed, deserted, disorganized, unprovided with resources, begirt with
enemies, the noble city was still no easy conquest. Whatever an
engineer might think of the strength of the ramparts, all that was most
intelligent, most courageous, most highspirited among the Englishry of
Leinster and of Northern Ulster was crowded behind them. The number of
men capable of bearing arms within the walls was seven thousand; and the
whole world could not have furnished seven thousand men better qualified
to meet a terrible emergency with clear judgment, dauntless valour,
and stubborn patience. They were all zealous Protestants; and the
Protestantism of the majority was tinged with Puritanism. They had much
in common with that sober, resolute, and Godfearing class out of which
Cromwell had formed his unconquerable army. But the peculiar situation
in which they had been placed had developed in them some qualities
which, in the mother country, might possibly have remained latent. The
English inhabitants of Ireland were an aristocratic caste, which had
been enabled, by superior civilisation, by close union, by sleepless
vigilance, by cool intrepidity, to keep in subjection a numerous and
hostile population. Almost every one of them had been in some measure
trained both to military and to political functions. Almost every one
was familiar with the use of arms, and was accustomed to bear a part in
the administration of justice. It was remarked by contemporary writers
that the colonists had something of the Castilian haughtiness of manner,
though none of the Castilian indolence, that they spoke English
with remarkable purity and correctness, and that they were, both as
militiamen and as jurymen, superior to their kindred in the mother
country, [200] In all ages, men situated as the Anglosaxons in Ireland
were situated have had peculiar vices and peculiar virtues, the vices
and virtues of masters, as opposed to the vices and virtues of slaves.
The member of a dominant race is, in his dealings with the subject race,
seldom indeed fraudulent,--for fraud is the resource of the weak,--but
imperious, insolent, and cruel. Towards his brethren, on the other hand,
his conduct is generally just, kind, and even noble. His selfrespect
leads him to respect all who belong to his own order. His interest
impels him to cultivate a good understanding with those whose prompt,
strenuous, and courageous assistance may at any moment be necessary to
preserve his property and life. It is a truth ever present to his mind
that his own wellbeing depends on the ascendency of the class to which
he belongs. His very selfishness therefore is sublimed into public
spirit: and this public spirit is stimulated to fierce enthusiasm by
sympathy, by the desire of applause, and by the dread of infamy. For the
only opinion which he values is the opinion of his fellows; and in their
opinion devotion to the common cause is the most sacred of duties. The
character, thus formed, has two aspects. Seen on one side, it must be
regarded by every well constituted mind with disapprobation. Seen on
the other, it irresistibly extorts applause. The Spartan, smiting and
spurning the wretched Helot, moves our disgust. But the same Spartan,
calmly dressing his hair, and uttering his concise jests, on what he
well knows to be his last day, in the pass of Thermopylae, is not to be
contemplated without admiration. To a superficial observer it may seem
strange that so much evil and so much good should be found together.
But in truth the good and the evil, which at first sight appear almost
incompatible, are closely connected, and have a common origin. It was
because the Spartan had been taught to revere himself as one of a race
of sovereigns, and to look down on all that was not Spartan as of an
inferior species, that he had no fellow feeling for the miserable serfs
who crouched before him, and that the thought of submitting to a foreign
master, or of turning his back before an enemy, never, even in the last
extremity, crossed his mind. Something of the same character, compounded
of tyrant and hero, has been found in all nations which have domineered
over more numerous nations. But it has nowhere in modern Europe shown
itself so conspicuously as in Ireland. With what contempt, with what
antipathy, the ruling minority in that country long regarded the subject
majority may be best learned from the hateful laws which, within the
memory of men still living, disgraced the Irish statute book. Those laws
were at length annulled: but the spirit which had dictated them survived
them, and even at this day sometimes breaks out in excesses pernicious
to the commonwealth and dishonourable to the Protestant religion.
Nevertheless it is impossible to deny that the English colonists have
had, with too many of the faults, all the noblest virtues of a sovereign
caste. The faults have, as was natural, been most offensively exhibited
in times of prosperity and security: the virtues have been most
resplendent in times of distress and peril; and never were those virtues
more signally displayed than by the defenders of Londonderry, when their
Governor had abandoned them, and when the camp of their mortal enemy was
pitched before their walls.
No sooner had the first burst of the rage excited by the perfidy of
Lundy spent itself than those whom he had betrayed proceeded, with a
gravity and prudence worthy of the most renowned senates, to provide for
the order and defence of the city. Two governors were elected, Baker
and Walker. Baker took the chief military command. Walker's especial
business was to preserve internal tranquillity, and to dole out supplies
from the magazines, [201] The inhabitants capable of bearing arms were
distributed into eight regiments. Colonels, captains, and subordinate
officers were appointed. In a few hours every man knew his post, and was
ready to repair to it as soon as the beat of the drum was heard. That
machinery, by which Oliver had, in the preceding generation, kept up
among his soldiers so stern and so pertinacious an enthusiasm, was again
employed with not less complete success. Preaching and praying occupied
a large part of every day. Eighteen clergymen of the Established Church
and seven or eight nonconformist ministers were within the walls. They
all exerted themselves indefatigably to rouse and sustain the spirit of
the people. Among themselves there was for the time entire harmony. All
disputes about church government, postures, ceremonies, were forgotten.
The Bishop, having found that his lectures on passive obedience were
derided even by the Episcopalians, had withdrawn himself, first to
Raphoe, and then to England, and was preaching in a chapel in London,
[202] On the other hand, a Scotch fanatic named Hewson, who had exhorted
the Presbyterians not to ally themselves with such as refused to
subscribe the Covenant, had sunk under the well merited disgust and
scorn of the whole Protestant community, [203] The aspect of the
Cathedral was remarkable. Cannon were planted on the summit of the broad
tower which has since given place to a tower of different proportions.
Ammunition was stored in the vaults. In the choir the liturgy of the
Anglican Church was read every morning. Every afternoon the Dissenters
crowded to a simpler worship, [204]
James had waited twenty-four hours, expecting, as it should seem,
the performance of Lundy's promises; and in twenty-four hours the
arrangements for the defence of Londonderry were complete. On the
evening of the nineteenth of April, a trumpeter came to the southern
gate, and asked whether the engagements into which the Governor had
entered would be fulfilled. The answer was that the men who guarded
these walls had nothing to do with the Governor's engagements, and were
determined to resist to the last.
On the following day a messenger of higher rank was sent, Claude
Hamilton, Lord Strabane, one of the few Roman Catholic peers of Ireland.
Murray, who had been appointed to the command of one of the eight
regiments into which the garrison was distributed, advanced from
the gate to meet the flag of truce; and a short conference was held.
Strabane had been authorised to make large promises. The citizens should
have a free pardon for all that was past if they would submit to their
lawful Sovereign. Murray himself should have a colonel's commission, and
a thousand pounds in money. "The men of Londonderry," answered Murray,
"have done nothing that requires a pardon, and own no Sovereign but King
William and Queen Mary. It will not be safe for your Lordship to stay
longer, or to return on the same errand. Let me have the honour of
seeing you through the lines." [205]
James had been assured, and had fully expected, that the city would
yield as soon as it was known that he was before the walls. Finding
himself mistaken, he broke loose from the control of Melfort, and
determined to return instantly to Dublin. Rosen accompanied the King.
The direction of the siege was intrusted to Maumont. Richard Hamilton
was second, and Pusignan third, in command.
The operations now commenced in earnest. The besiegers began by
battering the town. It was soon on fire in several places. Roofs and
upper stories of houses fell in, and crushed the inmates. During a short
time the garrison, many of whom had never before seen the effect of a
cannonade, seemed to be discomposed by the crash of chimneys, and by
the heaps of ruin mingled with disfigured corpses. But familiarity with
danger and horror produced in a few hours the natural effect. The spirit
of the people rose so high that their chiefs thought it safe to act on
the offensive. On the twenty-first of April a sally was made under
the command of Murray. The Irish stood their ground resolutely; and a
furious and bloody contest took place. Maumont, at the head of a body of
cavalry, flew to the place where the fight was raging. He was struck in
the head by a musket ball, and fell a corpse. The besiegers lost several
other officers, and about two hundred men, before the colonists could
be driven in. Murray escaped with difficulty. His horse was killed under
him; and he was beset by enemies: but he was able to defend himself till
some of his friends made a rush from the gate to his rescue, with old
Walker at their head, [206]
In consequence of the death of Maumont, Hamilton was once more
commander of the Irish army. His exploits in that post did not raise his
reputation. He was a fine gentleman and a brave soldier; but he had no
pretensions to the character of a great general, and had never, in his
life, seen a siege, [207] Pusignan had more science and energy. But
Pusignan survived Maumont little more than a fortnight. At four in
the morning of the sixth of May, the garrison made another sally, took
several flags, and killed many of the besiegers. Pusignan, fighting
gallantly, was shot through the body. The wound was one which a skilful
surgeon might have cured: but there was no such surgeon in the Irish
camp; and the communication with Dublin was slow and irregular. The
poor Frenchman died, complaining bitterly of the barbarous ignorance
and negligence which had shortened his days. A medical man, who had been
sent down express from the capital, arrived after the funeral. James,
in consequence, as it should seem, of this disaster, established a daily
post between Dublin Castle and Hamilton's head quarters. Even by this
conveyance letters did not travel very expeditiously: for the couriers
went on foot; and, from fear probably of the Enniskilleners, took a
circuitous route from military post to military post, [208]
May passed away: June arrived; and still Londonderry held out. There
had been many sallies and skirmishes with various success: but, on the
whole, the advantage had been with the garrison. Several officers of
note had been carried prisoners into the city; and two French banners,
torn after hard fighting from the besiegers, had been hung as trophies
in the chancel of the Cathedral. It seemed that the siege must be turned
into a blockade. But before the hope of reducing the town by main force
was relinquished, it was determined to make a great effort. The point
selected for assault was an outwork called Windmill Hill, which was
not far from the southern gate. Religious stimulants were employed
to animate the courage of the forlorn hope. Many volunteers bound
themselves by oath to make their way into the works or to perish in the
attempt. Captain Butler, son of the Lord Mountgarret, undertook to lead
the sworn men to the attack. On the walls the colonists were drawn up in
three ranks. The office of those who were behind was to load the muskets
of those who were in front. The Irish came on boldly and with a fearful
uproar, but after long and hard fighting were driven back. The women
of Londonderry were seen amidst the thickest fire serving out water and
ammunition to their husbands and brothers. In one place, where the wall
was only seven feet high, Butler and some of his sworn men succeeded in
reaching the top; but they were all killed or made prisoners. At length,
after four hundred of the Irish had fallen, their chiefs ordered a
retreat to be sounded, [209]
Nothing was left but to try the effect of hunger. It was known that the
stock of food in the city was but slender. Indeed it was thought strange
that the supplies should have held out so long. Every precaution was now
taken against the introduction of provisions. All the avenues leading to
the city by land were closely guarded. On the south were encamped, along
the left bank of the Foyle, the horsemen who had followed Lord Galmoy
from the valley of the Barrow. Their chief was of all the Irish captains
the most dreaded and the most abhorred by the Protestants. For he had
disciplined his men with rare skill and care; and many frightful stories
were told of his barbarity and perfidy. Long lines of tents, occupied by
the infantry of Butler and O'Neil, of Lord Slane and Lord Gormanstown,
by Nugent's Westmeath men, by Eustace's Kildare men, and by Cavanagh's
Kerry men, extended northward till they again approached the water side,
[210] The river was fringed with forts and batteries which no vessel
could pass without great peril. After some time it was determined to
make the security still more complete by throwing a barricade across the
stream, about a mile and a half below the city. Several boats full of
stones were sunk. A row of stakes was driven into the bottom of the
river. Large pieces of fir wood, strongly bound together, formed a boom
which was more than a quarter of a mile in length, and which was firmly
fastened to both shores, by cables a foot thick, [211] A huge stone, to
which the cable on the left bank was attached, was removed many years
later, for the purpose of being polished and shaped into a column. But
the intention was abandoned, and the rugged mass still lies, not
many yards from its original site, amidst the shades which surround a
pleasant country house named Boom Hall. Hard by is the well from which
the besiegers drank. A little further off is the burial ground where
they laid their slain, and where even in our own time the spade of the
gardener has struck upon many sculls and thighbones at a short distance
beneath the turf and flowers.
While these things were passing in the North, James was holding his
court at Dublin. On his return thither from Londonderry he received
intelligence that the French fleet, commanded by the Count of Chateau
Renaud, had anchored in Bantry Bay, and had put on shore a large
quantity of military stores and a supply of money. Herbert, who had
just been sent to those seas with an English squadron for the purpose
of intercepting the communications between Britanny and Ireland, learned
where the enemy lay, and sailed into the bay with the intention of
giving battle. But the wind was unfavourable to him: his force was
greatly inferior to that which was opposed to him; and after some
firing, which caused no serious loss to either side, he thought it
prudent to stand out to sea, while the French retired into the recesses
of the harbour. He steered for Scilly, where he expected to find
reinforcements; and Chateau Renaud, content with the credit which he had
acquired, and afraid of losing it if he staid, hastened back to Brest,
though earnestly intreated by James to come round to Dublin.
Both sides claimed the victory. The Commons at Westminster absurdly
passed a vote of thanks to Herbert. James, not less absurdly, ordered
bonfires to be lighted, and a Te Deum to be sung. But these marks of joy
by no means satisfied Avaux, whose national vanity was too strong even
for his characteristic prudence and politeness. He complained that James
was so unjust and ungrateful as to attribute the result of the late
action to the reluctance with which the English seamen fought against
their rightful King and their old commander, and that his Majesty did
not seem to be well pleased by being told that they were flying over the
ocean pursued by the triumphant French. Dover, too, was a bad Frenchman.
He seemed to take no pleasure in the defeat of his countrymen, and had
been heard to say that the affair in Bantry Bay did not deserve to be
called a battle, [212]
On the day after the Te Deum had been sung at Dublin for this indecisive
skirmish, the Parliament convoked by James assembled. The number of
temporal peers of Ireland, when he arrived in that kingdom, was about a
hundred. Of these only fourteen obeyed his summons. Of the fourteen,
ten were Roman Catholics. By the reversing of old attainders, and by new
creations, seventeen more Lords, all Roman Catholics, were introduced
into the Upper House. The Protestant Bishops of Meath, Ossory, Cork, and
Limerick, whether from a sincere conviction that they could not lawfully
withhold their obedience even from a tyrant, or from a vain hope that
the heart even of a tyrant might be softened by their patience, made
their appearance in the midst of their mortal enemies.
The House of Commons consisted almost exclusively of Irishmen and
Papists. With the writs the returning officers had received from
Tyrconnel letters naming the persons whom he wished to see elected. The
largest constituent bodies in the kingdom were at this time very small.
For scarcely any but Roman Catholics dared to show their faces; and the
Roman Catholic freeholders were then very few, not more, it is said,
in some counties, than ten or twelve. Even in cities so considerable
as Cork, Limerick, and Galway, the number of persons who, under the new
Charters, were entitled to vote did not exceed twenty-four. About two
hundred and fifty members took their seats. Of these only six were
Protestants, [213] The list of the names sufficiently indicates the
religious and political temper of the assembly. Alone among the Irish
parliaments of that age, this parliament was filled with Dermots
and Geohagans, O'Neils and O'Donovans, Macmahons, Macnamaras, and
Macgillicuddies. The lead was taken by a few men whose abilities had
been improved by the study of the law, or by experience acquired
in foreign countries. The Attorney General, Sir Richard Nagle, who
represented the county of Cork, was allowed, even by Protestants, to
be an acute and learned jurist. Francis Plowden, the Commissioner of
Revenue, who sate for Bannow, and acted as chief minister of finance,
was an Englishman, and, as he had been a principal agent of the Order of
Jesuits in money matters, must be supposed to have been an excellent
man of business, [214] Colonel Henry Luttrell, member for the county of
Carlow, had served long in France, and had brought back to his native
Ireland a sharpened intellect and polished manners, a flattering tongue,
some skill in war, and much more skill in intrigue. His elder brother,
Colonel Simon Luttrell, who was member for the county of Dublin, and
military governor of the capital, had also resided in France,
and, though inferior to Henry in parts and activity, made a highly
distinguished figure among the adherents of James. The other member for
the county of Dublin was Colonel Patrick Sarsfield. This gallant officer
was regarded by the natives as one of themselves: for his ancestors on
the paternal side, though originally English, were among those early
colonists who were proverbially said to have become more Irish than
Irishmen. His mother was of noble Celtic blood; and he was firmly
attached to the old religion. He had inherited an estate of about two
thousand a year, and was therefore one of the wealthiest Roman Catholics
in the kingdom. His knowledge of courts and camps was such as few of his
countrymen possessed. He had long borne a commission in the English Life
Guards, had lived much about Whitehall, and had fought bravely under
Monmouth on the Continent, and against Monmouth at Sedgemoor. He had,
Avaux wrote, more personal influence than any man in Ireland, and was
indeed a gentleman of eminent merit, brave, upright, honourable, careful
of his men in quarters, and certain to be always found at their head in
the day of battle. His intrepidity, his frankness, his boundless good
nature, his stature, which far exceeded that of ordinary men, and the
strength which he exerted in personal conflict, gained for him the
affectionate admiration of the populace. It is remarkable that the
Englishry generally respected him as a valiant, skilful, and generous
enemy, and that, even in the most ribald farces which were performed by
mountebanks in Smithfield, he was always excepted from the disgraceful
imputations which it was then the fashion to throw on the Irish nation,
[215]
But men like these were rare in the House of Commons which had met at
Dublin. It is no reproach to the Irish nation, a nation which has since
furnished its full proportion of eloquent and accomplished senators, to
say that, of all the parliaments which have met in the British islands,
Barebone's parliament not excepted, the assembly convoked by James
was the most deficient in all the qualities which a legislature should
possess. The stern domination of a hostile caste had blighted the
faculties of the Irish gentleman. If he was so fortunate as to have
lands, he had generally passed his life on them, shooting, fishing,
carousing, and making love among his vassals. If his estate had been
confiscated, he had wandered about from bawn to bawn and from cabin to
cabin, levying small contributions, and living at the expense of other
men. He had never sate in the House of Commons: he had never even taken
an active part at an election: he had never been a magistrate: scarcely
ever had he been on a grand jury. He had therefore absolutely no
experience of public affairs. The English squire of that age, though
assuredly not a very profound or enlightened politician, was a statesman
and a philosopher when compared with the Roman Catholic squire of
Munster or Connaught.
The Parliaments of Ireland had then no fixed place of assembling. Indeed
they met so seldom and broke up so speedily that it would hardly have
been worth while to build and furnish a palace for their special use. It
was not till the Hanoverian dynasty had been long on the throne, that a
senate house which sustains a comparison with the finest compositions
of Inigo Jones arose in College Green. On the spot where the portico
and dome of the Four Courts now overlook the Liffey, stood, in the
seventeenth century, an ancient building which had once been a convent
of Dominican friars, but had since the Reformation been appropriated to
the use of the legal profession, and bore the name of the King's Inns.
There accommodation had been provided for the parliament. On the seventh
of May, James, dressed in royal robes and wearing a crown, took his
seat on the throne in the House of Lords, and ordered the Commons to be
summoned to the bar, [216]
He then expressed his gratitude to the natives of Ireland for having
adhered to his cause when the people of his other kingdoms had deserted
him. His resolution to abolish all religious disabilities in all his
dominions he declared to be unalterable. He invited the houses to take
the Act of Settlement into consideration, and to redress the injuries
of which the old proprietors of the soil had reason to complain. He
concluded by acknowledging in warm terms his obligations to the King of
France, [217]
When the royal speech had been pronounced, the Chancellor directed the
Commons to repair to their chamber and to elect a Speaker. They chose
the Attorney General Nagle; and the choice was approved by the King,
[218]
The Commons next passed resolutions expressing warm gratitude both to
James and to Lewis. Indeed it was proposed to send a deputation with an
address to Avaux; but the Speaker pointed out the gross impropriety of
such a step; and, on this occasion, his interference was successful,
[219] It was seldom however that the House was disposed to listen
to reason. The debates were all rant and tumult. Judge Daly, a Roman
Catholic, but an honest and able man, could not refrain from lamenting
the indecency and folly with which the members of his Church carried
on the work of legislation. Those gentlemen, he said, were not a
Parliament: they were a mere rabble: they resembled nothing so much as
the mob of fishermen and market gardeners, who, at Naples, yelled and
threw up their caps in honour of Massaniello. It was painful to hear
member after member talking wild nonsense about his own losses, and
clamouring for an estate, when the lives of all and the independence of
their common country were in peril. These words were spoken in private;
but some talebearer repeated them to the Commons. A violent storm broke
forth. Daly was ordered to attend at the bar; and there was little doubt
that he would be severely dealt with. But, just when he was at the
door, one of the members rushed in, shouting, "Good news: Londonderry
is taken." The whole House rose. All the hats were flung into the air.
Three loud huzzas were raised. Every heart was softened by the happy
tidings. Nobody would hear of punishment at such a moment. The order
for Daly's attendance was discharged amidst cries of "No submission; no
submission; we pardon him." In a few hours it was known that
Londonderry held out as obstinately as ever. This transaction, in itself
unimportant, deserves to be recorded, as showing how destitute that
House of Commons was of the qualities which ought to be found in the
great council of a kingdom. And this assembly, without experience,
without gravity, and without temper, was now to legislate on questions
which would have tasked to the utmost the capacity of the greatest
statesmen, [220]
One Act James induced them to pass which would have been most honourable
to him and to them, if there were not abundant proofs that it was meant
to be a dead letter. It was an Act purporting to grant entire liberty of
conscience to all Christian sects. On this occasion a proclamation was
put forth announcing in boastful language to the English people that
their rightful King had now signally refuted those slanderers who had
accused him of affecting zeal for religious liberty merely in order to
serve a turn. If he were at heart inclined to persecution, would he not
have persecuted the Irish Protestants? He did not want power. He did not
want provocation. Yet at Dublin, where the members of his Church were
the majority, as at Westminister, where they were a minority, he
had firmly adhered to the principles laid down in his much maligned
Declaration of Indulgence, [221] Unfortunately for him, the same wind
which carried his fair professions to England carried thither also
evidence that his professions were insincere. A single law, worthy of
Turgot or of Franklin, seemed ludicrously out of place in the midst of a
crowd of laws which would have disgraced Gardiner or Alva.
A necessary preliminary to the vast work of spoliation and slaughter
on which the legislators of Dublin were bent, was an Act annulling the
authority which the English Parliament, both as the supreme legislature
and as the supreme Court of Appeal, had hitherto exercised over
Ireland, [222] This Act was rapidly passed; and then followed, in quick
succession, confiscations and proscriptions on a gigantic scale. The
personal estates of absentees above the age of seventeen years were
transferred to the King. When lay property was thus invaded, it was not
likely that the endowments which had been, in contravention of every
sound principle, lavished on the Church of the minority would be spared.
To reduce those endowments, without prejudice to existing interests,
would have been a reform worthy of a good prince and of a good
parliament. But no such reform would satisfy the vindictive bigots who
sate at the King's Inns. By one sweeping Act, the greater part of the
tithe was transferred from the Protestant to the Roman Catholic
clergy; and the existing incumbents were left, without one farthing
of compensation, to die of hunger, [223] A Bill repealing the Act of
Settlement and transferring many thousands of square miles from Saxon to
Celtic landlords was brought in and carried by acclamation, [224]
Of legislation such as this it is impossible to speak too severely:
but for the legislators there are excuses which it is the duty of the
historian to notice. They acted unmercifully, unjustly, unwisely. But it
would be absurd to expect mercy, justice, or wisdom from a class of men
first abased by many years of oppression, and then maddened by the
joy of a sudden deliverance, and armed with irresistible power. The
representatives of the Irish nation were, with few exceptions, rude
and ignorant. They had lived in a state of constant irritation. With
aristocratical sentiments they had been in a servile position. With the
highest pride of blood, they had been exposed to daily affronts, such as
might well have roused the choler of the humblest plebeian. In sight of
the fields and castles which they regarded as their own, they had been
glad to be invited by a peasant to partake of his whey and his potatoes.
Those violent emotions of hatred and cupidity which the situation of the
native gentleman could scarcely fail to call forth appeared to him under
the specious guise of patriotism and piety. For his enemies were the
enemies of his nation; and the same tyranny which had robbed him of his
patrimony had robbed his Church of vast wealth bestowed on her by
the devotion of an earlier age. How was power likely to be used by
an uneducated and inexperienced man, agitated by strong desires and
resentments which he mistook for sacred duties? And, when two or three
hundred such men were brought together in one assembly, what was to be
expected but that the passions which each had long nursed in silence
would be at once matured into fearful vigour by the influence of
sympathy?
Between James and his parliament there was little in common, except
hatred of the Protestant religion. He was an Englishman. Superstition
had not utterly extinguished all national feeling in his mind; and he
could not but be displeased by the malevolence with which his Celtic
supporters regarded the race from which he sprang. The range of his
intellectual vision was small. Yet it was impossible that, having
reigned in England, and looking constantly forward to the day when he
should reign in England once more, he should not take a wider view of
politics than was taken by men who had no objects out of Ireland. The
few Irish Protestants who still adhered to him, and the British nobles,
both Protestant and Roman Catholic, who had followed him into exile,
implored him to restrain the violence of the rapacious and vindictive
senate which he had convoked. They with peculiar earnestness implored
him not to consent to the repeal of the Act of Settlement. On what
security, they asked, could any man invest his money or give a portion
to his children, if he could not rely on positive laws and on the
uninterrupted possession of many years? The military adventurers among
whom Cromwell portioned out the soil might perhaps be regarded as
wrongdoers. But how large a part of their estates had passed, by fair
purchase, into other hands! How much money had proprietors borrowed on
mortgage, on statute merchant, on statute staple! How many capitalists
had, trusting to legislative acts and to royal promises, come over
from England, and bought land in Ulster and Leinster, without the least
misgiving as to the title! What a sum had those capitalists expended,
during a quarter of a century, in building; draining, inclosing,
planting! The terms of the compromise which Charles the Second had
sanctioned might not be in all respects just. But was one injustice to
be redressed by committing another injustice more monstrous still? And
what effect was likely to be produced in England by the cry of thousands
of innocent English families whom an English king had doomed to ruin?
The complaints of such a body of sufferers might delay, might prevent,
the Restoration to which all loyal subjects were eagerly looking
forward; and, even if his Majesty should, in spite of those complaints,
be happily restored, he would to the end of his life feel the pernicious
effects of the injustice which evil advisers were now urging him to
commit. He would find that, in trying to quiet one set of malecontents,
he had created another. As surely as he yielded to the clamour raised at
Dublin for a repeal of the Act of Settlement, he would, from the day
on which he returned to Westminster, be assailed by as loud and
pertinacious a clamour for a repeal of that repeal. He could not but be
aware that no English Parliament, however loyal, would permit such laws
as were now passing through the Irish Parliament to stand. Had he made
up his mind to take the part of Ireland against the universal sense of
England? If so, to what could he look forward but another banishment
and another deposition? Or would he, when he had recovered the greater
kingdom, revoke the boors by which, in his distress, he had purchased
the help of the smaller? It might seem an insult to him even to suggest
that he could harbour the thought of such unprincely, of such unmanly,
perfidy. Yet what other course would be left to him? And was it not
better for him to refuse unreasonable concessions now than to retract
those concessions hereafter in a manner which must bring on him
reproaches insupportable to a noble mind? His situation was doubtless
embarrassing. Yet in this case, as in other cases, it would be found
that the path of justice was the path of wisdom, [225]
Though James had, in his speech at the opening of the session, declared
against the Act of Settlement, he felt that these arguments were
unanswerable. He held several conferences with the leading members of
the House of Commons, and earnestly recommended moderation. But his
exhortations irritated the passions which he wished to allay. Many of
the native gentry held high and violent language. It was impudent, they
said, to talk about the rights of purchasers. How could right spring out
of wrong? People who chose to buy property acquired by injustice must
take the consequences of their folly and cupidity. It was clear that the
Lower House was altogether impracticable. James had, four years
before, refused to make the smallest concession to the most obsequious
parliament that has ever sat in England; and it might have been expected
that the obstinacy, which he had never wanted when it was a vice, would
not have failed him now when it would have been a virtue. During a short
time he seemed determined to act justly. He even talked of dissolving
the parliament. The chiefs of the old Celtic families, on the
other hand, said publicly that, if he did not give them back their
inheritance, they would not fight for his. His very soldiers railed on
him in the streets of Dublin. At length he determined to go down himself
to the House of Peers, not in his robes and crown, but in the garb in
which he had been used to attend debates at Westminster, and personally
to solicit the Lords to put some check on the violence of the Commons.
But just as he was getting into his coach for this purpose he was
stopped by Avaux. Avaux was as zealous as any Irishman for the bills
which the Commons were urging forward. It was enough for him that those
bills seemed likely to make the enmity between England and Ireland
irreconcileable. His remonstrances induced James to abstain from openly
opposing the repeal of the Act of Settlement. Still the unfortunate
prince continued to cherish some faint hope that the law for which the
Commons were so zealous would be rejected, or at least modified, by the
Peers. Lord Granard, one of the few Protestant noblemen who sate in that
parliament, exerted himself strenuously on the side of public faith and
sound policy. The King sent him a message of thanks. "We Protestants,"
said Granard to Powis who brought the message, "are few in number.
We can do little. His Majesty should try his influence with the Roman
Catholics." "His Majesty," answered Powis with an oath, "dares not say
what he thinks." A few days later James met Granard riding towards the
parliament house. "Where are you going, my Lord?" said the King. "To
enter my protest, Sir," answered Granard, "against the repeal of the Act
of Settlement." "You are right," said the King: "but I am fallen into
the hands of people who will ram that and much more down my throat."
[226]
James yielded to the will of the Commons; but the unfavourable
impression which his short and feeble resistance had made upon them was
not to be removed by his submission. They regarded him with profound
distrust; they considered him as at heart an Englishman; and not a day
passed without some indication of this feeling. They were in no haste to
grant him a supply. One party among them planned an address urging him
to dismiss Melfort as an enemy of their nation. Another party drew up
a bill for deposing all the Protestant Bishops, even the four who were
then actually sitting in Parliament. It was not without difficulty that
Avaux and Tyrconnel, whose influence in the Lower House far exceeded the
King's, could restrain the zeal of the majority, [227]
It is remarkable that, while the King was losing the confidence and
good will of the Irish Commons by faintly defending against them, in
one quarter, the institution of property, he was himself, in another
quarter, attacking that institution with a violence, if possible,
more reckless than theirs. He soon found that no money came into his
Exchequer. The cause was sufficiently obvious. Trade was at an end.
Floating capital had been withdrawn in great masses from the island. Of
the fixed capital much had been destroyed, and the rest was lying
idle. Thousands of those Protestants who were the most industrious and
intelligent part of the population had emigrated to England. Thousands
had taken refuge in the places which still held out for William and
Mary. Of the Roman Catholic peasantry who were in the vigour of life the
majority had enlisted in the army or had joined gangs of plunderers. The
poverty of the treasury was the necessary effect of the poverty of the
country: public prosperity could be restored only by the restoration
of private prosperity; and private prosperity could be restored only
by years of peace and security. James was absurd enough to imagine that
there was a more speedy and efficacious remedy. He could, he conceived,
at once extricate himself from his financial difficulties by the simple
process of calling a farthing a shilling. The right of coining was
undoubtedly a flower of the prerogative; and, in his view, the right of
coining included the right of debasing the coin. Pots, pans, knockers of
doors, pieces of ordnance which had long been past use, were carried to
the mint. In a short time lumps of base metal, nominally worth near a
million sterling, intrinsically worth about a sixtieth part of that sum,
were in circulation. A royal edict declared these pieces to be legal
tender in all cases whatever. A mortgage for a thousand pounds was
cleared off by a bag of counters made out of old kettles. The creditors
who complained to the Court of Chancery were told by Fitton to take
their money and be gone. But of all classes the tradesmen of Dublin,
who were generally Protestants, were the greatest losers. At first, of
course, they raised their demands: but the magistrates of the city took
on themselves to meet this heretical machination by putting forth a
tariff regulating prices. Any man who belonged to the caste now
dominant might walk into a shop, lay on the counter a bit of brass worth
threepence, and carry off goods to the value of half a guinea. Legal
redress was out of the question. Indeed the sufferers thought themselves
happy if, by the sacrifice of their stock in trade, they could redeem
their limbs and their lives. There was not a baker's shop in the city
round which twenty or thirty soldiers were not constantly prowling. Some
persons who refused the base money were arrested by troopers and carried
before the Provost Marshal, who cursed them, swore at them, locked them
up in dark cells, and, by threatening to hang them at their own doors,
soon overcame their resistance. Of all the plagues of that time
none made a deeper or a more lasting impression on the minds of the
Protestants of Dublin than the plague of the brass money, [228] To the
recollection of the confusion and misery which had been produced by
James's coin must be in part ascribed the strenuous opposition which,
thirty-five years later, large classes, firmly attached to the House of
Hanover, offered to the government of George the First in the affair of
Wood's patent.
There can be no question that James, in thus altering, by his own
authority, the terms of all the contracts in the kingdom, assumed a
power which belonged only to the whole legislature. Yet the Commons did
not remonstrate. There was no power, however unconstitutional, which
they were not willing to concede to him, as long as he used it to crush
and plunder the English population. On the other hand, they respected no
prerogative, however ancient, however legitimate, however salutary, if
they apprehended that he might use it to protect the race which they
abhorred. They were not satisfied till they had extorted his reluctant
consent to a portentous law, a law without a parallel in the history of
civilised countries, the great Act of Attainder.
A list was framed containing between two and three thousand names. At
the top was half the peerage of Ireland. Then came baronets, knights,
clergymen, squires, merchants, yeomen, artisans, women, children.
No investigation was made. Any member who wished to rid himself of a
creditor, a rival, a private enemy, gave in the name to the clerk at the
table, and it was generally inserted without discussion. The only
debate of which any account has come down to us related to the Earl of
Strafford. He had friends in the House who ventured to offer something
in his favour. But a few words from Simon Luttrell settled the question.
"I have," he said, "heard the King say some hard things of that lord."
This was thought sufficient, and the name of Strafford stands fifth in
the long table of the proscribed, [229]
Days were fixed before which those whose names were on the list
were required to surrender themselves to such justice as was then
administered to English Protestants in Dublin. If a proscribed person
was in Ireland, he must surrender himself by the tenth of August. If
he had left Ireland since the fifth of November 1688, he must surrender
himself by the first of September. If he had left Ireland before the
fifth of November 1688, he must surrender himself by the first of
October. If he failed to appear by the appointed day, he was to be
hanged, drawn, and quartered without a trial, and his property was to
be confiscated. It might be physically impossible for him to deliver
himself up within the time fixed by the Act. He might be bedridden.
He might be in the West Indies. He might be in prison. Indeed there
notoriously were such cases. Among the attainted Lords was Mountjoy. He
had been induced by the villany of Tyrconnel to trust himself at Saint
Germains: he had been thrown into the Bastile: he was still lying there;
and the Irish parliament was not ashamed to enact that, unless he could,
within a few weeks, make his escape from his cell, and present himself
at Dublin, he should be put to death, [230]
As it was not even pretended that there had been any inquiry into the
guilt of those who were thus proscribed, as not a single one among them
had been heard in his own defence, and as it was certain that it would
be physically impossible for many of them to surrender themselves
in time, it was clear that nothing but a large exercise of the royal
prerogative of mercy could prevent the perpetration of iniquities
so horrible that no precedent could be found for them even in the
lamentable history of the troubles of Ireland. The Commons therefore
determined that the royal prerogative of mercy should be limited.
Several regulations were devised for the purpose of making the passing
of pardons difficult and costly: and finally it was enacted that every
pardon granted by his Majesty, after the end of November 1689, to any of
the many hundreds of persons who had been sentenced to death without a
trial, should be absolutely void and of none effect. Sir Richard Nagle
came in state to the bar of the Lords and presented the bill with a
speech worthy of the occasion. "Many of the persons here attainted,"
said he, "have been proved traitors by such evidence as satisfies us. As
to the rest we have followed common fame." [231]
With such reckless barbarity was the list framed that fanatical
royalists, who were, at that very time, hazarding their property,
their liberty, their lives, in the cause of James, were not secure from
proscription. The most learned man of whom the Jacobite party could
boast was Henry Dodwell, Camdenian Professor in the University of
Oxford. In the cause of hereditary monarchy he shrank from no sacrifice
and from no danger. It was about him that William uttered those
memorable words: "He has set his heart on being a martyr; and I have set
my mind on disappointing him." But James was more cruel to friends
than William to foes. Dodwell was a Protestant: he had some property in
Connaught: these crimes were sufficient; and he was set down in the long
roll of those who were doomed to the gallows and the quartering block,
[232]
That James would give his assent to a bill which took from him the power
of pardoning, seemed to many persons impossible. He had, four years
before, quarrelled with the most loyal of parliaments rather than cede
a prerogative which did not belong to him. It might, therefore, well
be expected that he would now have struggled hard to retain a precious
prerogative which had been enjoyed by his predecessors ever since the
origin of the monarchy, and which had never been questioned by the
Whigs. The stern look and raised voice with which he had reprimanded the
Tory gentlemen, who, in the language of profound reverence and fervent
affection, implored him not to dispense with the laws, would now have
been in place. He might also have seen that the right course was the
wise course. Had he, on this great occasion, had the spirit to declare
that he would not shed the blood of the innocent, and that, even as
respected the guilty, he would not divest himself of the power of
tempering judgment with mercy, he would have regained more hearts in
England than he would have lost in Ireland. But it was ever his fate to
resist where he should have yielded, and to yield where he should have
resisted. The most wicked of all laws received his sanction; and it is
but a very small extenuation of his guilt that his sanction was somewhat
reluctantly given.
That nothing might be wanting to the completeness of this great crime,
extreme care was taken to prevent the persons who were attainted from
knowing that they were attainted, till the day of grace fixed in the
Act was passed. The roll of names was not published, but kept carefully
locked up in Fitton's closet. Some Protestants, who still adhered to
the cause of James, but who were anxious to know whether any of their
friends or relations had been proscribed, tried hard to obtain a sight
of the list; but solicitation, remonstrance, even bribery, proved
vain. Not a single copy got abroad till it was too late for any of the
thousands who had been condemned without a trial to obtain a pardon,
[233]
Towards the close of July James prorogued the Houses. They had sate more
than ten weeks; and in that space of time they had proved most fully
that, great as have been the evils which Protestant ascendency has
produced in Ireland, the evils produced by Popish ascendancy would have
been greater still. That the colonists, when they had won the victory,
grossly abused it, that their legislation was, during many years, unjust
and tyrannical, is most true. But it is not less true that they never
quite came up to the atrocious example set by their vanquished enemy
during his short tenure of power.
Indeed, while James was loudly boasting that he had passed an Act
granting entire liberty of conscience to all sects, a persecution as
cruel as that of Languedoc was raging through all the provinces which
owned his authority. It was said by those who wished to find an excuse
for him that almost all the Protestants who still remained in Munster,
Connaught, and Leinster were his enemies, and that it was not as
schismatics, but as rebels in heart, who wanted only opportunity
to become rebels in act, that he gave them up to be oppressed and
despoiled; and to this excuse some weight might have been allowed if
he had strenuously exerted himself to protect those few colonists, who,
though firmly attached to the reformed religion, were still true to the
doctrines of nonresistance and of indefeasible hereditary right. But
even these devoted royalists found that their heresy was in his view
a crime for which no services or sacrifices would atone. Three or
four noblemen, members of the Anglican Church, who had welcomed him to
Ireland, and had sate in his Parliament, represented to him that, if the
rule which forbade any Protestant to possess any weapon were strictly
enforced, their country houses would be at the mercy of the Rapparees,
and obtained from him permission to keep arms sufficient for a few
servants. But Avaux remonstrated. The indulgence, he said, was grossly
abused: these Protestant lords were not to be trusted: they were turning
their houses into fortresses: his Majesty would soon have reason to
repent his goodness. These representations prevailed; and Roman Catholic
troops were quartered in the suspected dwellings, [234]
Still harder was the lot of those Protestant clergymen who continued to
cling, with desperate fidelity, to the cause of the Lord's Anointed. Of
all the Anglican divines the one who had the largest share of James's
good graces seems to have been Cartwright. Whether Cartwright could
long have continued to be a favourite without being an apostate may
be doubted. He died a few weeks after his arrival in Ireland; and
thenceforward his church had no one to plead her cause. Nevertheless a
few of her prelates and priests continued for a time to teach what they
had taught in the days of the Exclusion Bill. But it was at the peril
of life or limb that they exercised their functions. Every wearer of
a cassock was a mark for the insults and outrages of soldiers and
Rapparees. In the country his house was robbed, and he was fortunate if
it was not burned over his head. He was hunted through the streets of
Dublin with cries of "There goes the devil of a heretic." Sometimes he
was knocked down: sometimes he was cudgelled, [235] The rulers of
the University of Dublin, trained in the Anglican doctrine of passive
obedience, had greeted James on his first arrival at the Castle, and had
been assured by him that he would protect them in the enjoyment of their
property and their privileges. They were now, without any trial, without
any accusation, thrust out of their house. The communion plate of
the chapel, the books in the library, the very chairs and beds of the
collegians were seized. Part of the building was turned into a magazine,
part into a barrack, part into a prison. Simon Luttrell, who was
Governor of the capital, was, with great difficulty and by powerful
intercession, induced to let the ejected fellows and scholars depart
in safety. He at length permitted them to remain at large, with
this condition, that, on pain of death, no three of them should meet
together, [236] No Protestant divine suffered more hardships than Doctor
William King, Dean of Saint Patrick's. He had been long distinguished by
the fervour with which he had inculcated the duty of passively obeying
even the worst rulers. At a later period, when he had published a
defence of the Revolution, and had accepted a mitre from the new
government, he was reminded that he had invoked the divine vengeance on
the usurpers, and had declared himself willing to die a hundred deaths
rather than desert the cause of hereditary right. He had said that the
true religion had often been strengthened by persecution, but could
never be strengthened by rebellion; that it would be a glorious day for
the Church of England when a whole cartload of her ministers should go
to the gallows for the doctrine of nonresistance; and that his highest
ambition was to be one of such a company, [237] It is not improbable
that, when he spoke thus, he felt as he spoke. But his principles,
though they might perhaps have held out against the severities and the
promises of William, were not proof against the ingratitude of James.
Human nature at last asserted its rights. After King had been repeatedly
imprisoned by the government to which he was devotedly attached, after
he had been insulted and threatened in his own choir by the soldiers,
after he had been interdicted from burying in his own churchyard, and
from preaching in his own pulpit, after he had narrowly escaped with
life from a musketshot fired at him in the street, he began to think the
Whig theory of government less unreasonable and unchristian than it had
once appeared to him, and persuaded himself that the oppressed Church
might lawfully accept deliverance, if God should be pleased, by whatever
means, to send it to her.
In no long time it appeared that James would have done well to hearken
to those counsellors who had told him that the acts by which he was
trying to make himself popular in one of his three kingdoms, would make
him odious in the others. It was in some sense fortunate for England
that, after he had ceased to reign here, he continued during more than a
year to reign in Ireland. The Revolution had been followed by a reaction
of public feeling in his favour. That reaction, if it had been suffered
to proceed uninterrupted, might perhaps not have ceased till he was
again King: but it was violently interrupted by himself. He would not
suffer his people to forget: he would not suffer them to hope: while
they were trying to find excuses for his past errors, and to persuade
themselves that he would not repeat these errors, he forced upon them,
in their own despite, the conviction that he was incorrigible, that the
sharpest discipline of adversity had taught him nothing, and that, if
they were weak enough to recall him, they would soon have to depose him
again. It was in vain that the Jacobites put forth pamphlets about the
cruelty with which he had been treated by those who were nearest to him
in blood, about the imperious temper and uncourteous manners of William,
about the favour shown to the Dutch, about the heavy taxes, about the
suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, about the dangers which threatened
the Church from the enmity of Puritans and Latitudinarians. James
refuted these pamphlets far more effectually than all the ablest and
most eloquent Whig writers united could have done. Every week came
the news that he had passed some new Act for robbing or murdering
Protestants. Every colonist who succeeded in stealing across the sea
from Leinster to Holyhead or Bristol, brought fearful reports of the
tyranny under which his brethren groaned. What impression these reports
made on the Protestants of our island may be easily inferred from the
fact that they moved the indignation of Ronquillo, a Spaniard and a
bigoted member of the Church of Rome. He informed his Court that, though
the English laws against Popery might seem severe, they were so much
mitigated by the prudence and humanity of the Government, that they
caused no annoyance to quiet people; and he took upon himself to assure
the Holy See that what a Roman Catholic suffered in London was nothing
when compared with what a Protestant suffered in Ireland, [238]
The fugitive Englishry found in England warm sympathy and munificent
relief. Many were received into the houses of friends and kinsmen.
Many were indebted for the means of subsistence to the liberality of
strangers. Among those who bore a part in this work of mercy, none
contributed more largely or less ostentatiously than the Queen. The
House of Commons placed at the King's disposal fifteen thousand pounds
for the relief of those refugees whose wants were most pressing,
and requested him to give commissions in the army to those who were
qualified for military employment, [239] An Act was also passed enabling
beneficed clergymen who had fled from Ireland to hold preferment
in England, [240] Yet the interest which the nation felt in these
unfortunate guests was languid when compared with the interest excited
by that portion of the Saxon colony which still maintained in Ulster a
desperate conflict against overwhelming odds. On this subject scarcely
one dissentient voice was to be heard in our island. Whigs, Tories,
nay even those Jacobites in whom Jacobitism had not extinguished
every patriotic sentiment, gloried in the glory of Enniskillen and
Londonderry. The House of Commons was all of one mind. "This is no time
to be counting cost," said honest Birch, who well remembered the way
in which Oliver had made war on the Irish. "Are those brave fellows in
Londonderry to be deserted? If we lose them will not all the world cry
shame upon us? A boom across the river! Why have we not cut the boom in
pieces? Are our brethren to perish almost in sight of England, within a
few hours' voyage of our shores?" [241] Howe, the most vehement man of
one party, declared that the hearts of the people were set on Ireland.
Seymour, the leader of the other party, declared that, though he had not
taken part in setting up the new government, he should cordially support
it in all that might be necessary for the preservation of Ireland,
[242] The Commons appointed a committee to enquire into the cause of the
delays and miscarriages which had been all but fatal to the Englishry of
Ulster. The officers to whose treachery or cowardice the public ascribed
the calamities of Londonderry were put under arrest. Lundy was sent to
the Tower, Cunningham to the Gate House. The agitation of the public
mind was in some degree calmed by the announcement that, before the
end of the summer, an army powerful enough to reestablish the English
ascendency in Ireland would be sent across Saint George's Channel, and
that Schomberg would be the General. In the meantime an expedition
which was thought to be sufficient for the relief of Londonderry
was despatched from Liverpool under the command of Kirke. The dogged
obstinacy with which this man had, in spite of royal solicitations,
adhered to his religion, and the part which he had taken in the
Revolution, had perhaps entitled him to an amnesty for past crimes. But
it is difficult to understand why the Government should have selected
for a post of the highest importance an officer who was generally and
justly hated, who had never shown eminent talents for war, and who, both
in Africa and in England, had notoriously tolerated among his soldiers
a licentiousness, not only shocking to humanity, but also incompatible
with discipline.
On the sixteenth of May, Kirke's troops embarked: on the twenty-second
they sailed: but contrary winds made the passage slow, and forced the
armament to stop long at the Isle of Man. Meanwhile the Protestants of
Ulster were defending themselves with stubborn courage against a great
superiority of force. The Enniskilleners had never ceased to wage a
vigorous partisan war against the native population. Early in May they
marched to encounter a large body of troops from Connaught, who had
made an inroad into Donegal. The Irish were speedily routed, and fled to
Sligo with the loss of a hundred and twenty men killed and sixty taken.
Two small pieces of artillery and several horses fell into the hands of
the conquerors. Elated by this success, the Enniskilleners soon invaded
the county of Cavan, drove before them fifteen hundred of James's
troops, took and destroyed the castle of Ballincarrig, reputed the
strongest in that part of the kingdom, and carried off the pikes and
muskets of the garrison. The next incursion was into Meath. Three
thousand oxen and two thousand sheep were swept away and brought safe
to the little island in Lough Erne. These daring exploits spread terror
even to the gates of Dublin. Colonel Hugh Sutherland was ordered to
march against Enniskillen with a regiment of dragoons and two regiments
of foot. He carried with him arms for the native peasantry; and many
repaired to his standard. The Enniskilleners did not wait till he came
into their neighbourhood, but advanced to encounter him. He declined an
action, and retreated, leaving his stores at Belturbet under the care
of a detachment of three hundred soldiers. The Protestants attacked
Belturbet with vigour, made their way into a lofty house which
overlooked the town, and thence opened such a fire that in two hours the
garrison surrendered. Seven hundred muskets, a great quantity of powder,
many horses, many sacks of biscuits, many barrels of meal, were taken,
and were sent to Enniskillen. The boats which brought these precious
spoils were joyfully welcomed. The fear of hunger was removed. While the
aboriginal population had, in many counties, altogether neglected the
cultivation of the earth, in the expectation, it should seem, that
marauding would prove an inexhaustible resource, the colonists, true to
the provident and industrious character of their race, had, in the midst
of war, not omitted carefully to till the soil in the neighbourhood of
their strongholds. The harvest was now not far remote; and, till the
harvest, the food taken from the enemy would be amply sufficient, [243]
Yet, in the midst of success and plenty, the Enniskilleners were
tortured by a cruel anxiety for Londonderry. They were bound to the
defenders of that city, not only by religious and national sympathy,
but by common interest. For there could be no doubt that, if Londonderry
fell, the whole Irish army would instantly march in irresistible force
upon Lough Erne. Yet what could be done? Some brave men were for making
a desperate attempt to relieve the besieged city; but the odds were
too great. Detachments however were sent which infested the rear of the
blockading army, cut off supplies, and, on one occasion, carried away
the horses of three entire troops of cavalry, [244] Still the line of
posts which surrounded Londonderry by land remained unbroken. The river
was still strictly closed and guarded. Within the walls the distress had
become extreme. So early as the eighth of June horseflesh was almost
the only meat which could be purchased; and of horseflesh the supply was
scanty. It was necessary to make up the deficiency with tallow; and even
tallow was doled out with a parsimonious hand.
On the fifteenth of June a gleam of hope appeared. The sentinels on the
top of the Cathedral saw sails nine miles off in the bay of Lough Foyle.
Thirty vessels of different sizes were counted. Signals were made from
the steeples and returned from the mast heads, but were imperfectly
understood on both sides. At last a messenger from the fleet eluded the
Irish sentinels, dived under the boom, and informed the garrison that
Kirke had arrived from England with troops, arms, ammunition, and
provisions, to relieve the city, [245]
In Londonderry expectation was at the height: but a few hours of
feverish joy were followed by weeks of misery. Kirke thought it unsafe
to make any attempt, either by land or by water, on the lines of the
besiegers, and retired to the entrance of Lough Foyle, where, during
several weeks, he lay inactive.
And now the pressure of famine became every day more severe. A strict
search was made in all the recesses of all the houses of the city; and
some provisions, which had been concealed in cellars by people who had
since died or made their escape, were discovered and carried to the
magazines. The stock of cannon balls was almost exhausted; and their
place was supplied by brickbats coated with lead. Pestilence began, as
usual, to make its appearance in the train of hunger. Fifteen officers
died of fever in one day. The Governor Baker was among those who sank
under the disease. His place was supplied by Colonel John Mitchelburne,
[246]
Meanwhile it was known at Dublin that Kirke and his squadron were on
the coast of Ulster. The alarm was great at the Castle. Even before this
news arrived, Avaux had given it as his opinion that Richard Hamilton
was unequal to the difficulties of the situation. It had therefore been
resolved that Rosen should take the chief command. He was now sent down
with all speed, [247]
On the nineteenth of June he arrived at the head quarter of the
besieging army. At first he attempted to undermine the walls; but his
plan was discovered; and he was compelled to abandon it after a sharp
fight, in which more than a hundred of his men were slain. Then his
fury rose to a strange pitch. He, an old soldier, a Marshal of France in
expectancy, trained in the school of the greatest generals, accustomed,
during many years, to scientific war, to be baffled by a mob of country
gentlemen, farmers, shopkeepers, who were protected only by a wall which
any good engineer would at once have pronounced untenable! He raved, he
blasphemed, in a language of his own, made up of all the dialects spoken
from the Baltic to the Atlantic. He would raze the city to the ground:
he would spare no living thing; no, not the young girls; not the babies
at the breast. As to the leaders, death was too light a punishment for
them: he would rack them: he would roast them alive. In his rage he
ordered a shell to be flung into the town with a letter containing
a horrible menace. He would, he said, gather into one body all the
Protestants who had remained at their homes between Charlemont and the
sea, old men, women, children, many of them near in blood and affection
to the defenders of Londonderry. No protection, whatever might be the
authority by which it had been given, should be respected. The multitude
thus brought together should be driven under the walls of Londonderry,
and should there be starved to death in the sight of their countrymen,
their friends, their kinsmen. This was no idle threat. Parties were
instantly sent out in all directions to collect victims. At dawn, on the
morning of the second of July, hundreds of Protestants, who were charged
with no crime, who were incapable of bearing arms, and many of whom had
protections granted by James, were dragged to the gates of the city.
It was imagined that the piteous sight would quell the spirit of the
colonists. But the only effect was to rouse that spirit to still greater
energy. An order was immediately put forth that no man should utter the
word Surrender on pain of death; and no man uttered that word. Several
prisoners of high rank were in the town. Hitherto they had been well
treated, and had received as good rations as were measured out to the
garrison. They were now, closely confined. A gallows was erected on one
of the bastion; and a message was conveyed to Rosen, requesting him
to send a confessor instantly to prepare his friends for death. The
prisoners in great dismay wrote to the savage Livonian, but received
no answer. They then addressed themselves to their countryman, Richard
Hamilton. They were willing, they said, to shed their blood for their
King; but they thought it hard to die the ignominious death of thieves
in consequence of the barbarity of their own companions in arms.
Hamilton, though a man of lax principles, was not cruel. He had been
disgusted by the inhumanity of Rosen, but, being only second in command,
could not venture to express publicly all that he thought. He however
remonstrated strongly. Some Irish officers felt on this occasion as it
was natural that brave men should feel, and declared, weeping with pity
and indignation, that they should never cease to have in their ears the
cries of the poor women and children who had been driven at the point of
the pike to die of famine between the camp and the city. Rosen persisted
during forty-eight hours. In that time many unhappy creatures perished:
but Londonderry held out as resolutely as ever; and he saw that his
crime was likely to produce nothing but hatred and obloquy. He at length
gave way, and suffered the survivors to withdraw. The garrison then took
down the gallows which had been erected on the bastion, [248]
When the tidings of these events reached Dublin, James, though by no
means prone to compassion, was startled by an atrocity of which the
civil wars of England had furnished no example, and was displeased by
learning that protections, given by his authority, and guaranteed by his
honour, had been publicly declared to be nullities. He complained to
the French ambassador, and said, with a warmth which the occasion fully
justified, that Rosen was a barbarous Muscovite. Melfort could not
refrain from adding that, if Rosen had been an Englishman, he would
have been hanged. Avaux was utterly unable to understand this effeminate
sensibility. In his opinion, nothing had been done that was at all
reprehensible; and he had some difficulty in commanding himself when he
heard the King and the secretary blame, in strong language, an act of
wholesome severity, [249] In truth the French ambassador and the French
general were well paired. There was a great difference doubtless, in
appearance and manner, between the handsome, graceful, and refined
diplomatist, whose dexterity and suavity had been renowned at the most
polite courts of Europe, and the military adventurer, whose look and
voice reminded all who came near him that he had been born in a half
savage country, that he had risen from the ranks, and that he had once
been sentenced to death for marauding. But the heart of the courtier was
really even more callous than that of the soldier.
Rosen was recalled to Dublin; and Richard Hamilton was again left in the
chief command. He tried gentler means than those which had brought so
much reproach on his predecessor. No trick, no lie, which was thought
likely to discourage the starving garrison was spared. One day a great
shout was raised by the whole Irish camp. The defenders of Londonderry
were soon informed that the army of James was rejoicing on account of
the fall of Enniskillen. They were told that they had now no chance of
being relieved, and were exhorted to save their lives by capitulating.
They consented to negotiate. But what they asked was, that they should
be permitted to depart armed and in military array, by land or by water
at their choice. They demanded hostages for the exact fulfilment of
these conditions, and insisted that the hostages should be sent on board
of the fleet which lay in Lough Foyle. Such terms Hamilton durst not
grant: the Governors would abate nothing: the treaty was broken off; and
the conflict recommenced, [250]
By this time July was far advanced; and the state of the city was, hour
by hour, becoming more frightful. The number of the inhabitants had been
thinned more by famine and disease than by the fire of the enemy. Yet
that fire was sharper and more constant than ever. One of the gates was
beaten in: one of the bastions was laid in ruins; but the breaches made
by day were repaired by night with indefatigable activity. Every attack
was still repelled. But the fighting men of the garrison were so much
exhausted that they could scarcely keep their legs. Several of them, in
the act of striking at the enemy, fell down from mere weakness. A very
small quantity of grain remained, and was doled out by mouthfuls. The
stock of salted hides was considerable, and by gnawing them the garrison
appeased the rage of hunger. Dogs, fattened on the blood of the slain
who lay unburied round the town, were luxuries which few could afford
to purchase. The price of a whelp's paw was five shillings and sixpence.
Nine horses were still alive, and but barely alive. They were so lean
that little meat was likely to be found upon them. It was, however,
determined to slaughter them for food. The people perished so fast that
it was impossible for the survivors to perform the rites of sepulture.
There was scarcely a cellar in which some corpse was not decaying. Such
was the extremity of distress, that the rats who came to feast in those
hideous dens were eagerly hunted and greedily devoured. A small fish,
caught in the river, was not to be purchased with money. The only
price for which such a treasure could be obtained was some handfuls of
oatmeal. Leprosies, such as strange and unwholesome diet engenders, made
existence a constant torment. The whole city was poisoned by the stench
exhaled from the bodies of the dead and of the half dead. That there
should be fits of discontent and insubordination among men enduring such
misery was inevitable. At one moment it was suspected that Walker had
laid up somewhere a secret store of food, and was revelling in private,
while he exhorted others to suffer resolutely for the good cause. His
house was strictly examined: his innocence was fully proved: he regained
his popularity; and the garrison, with death in near prospect, thronged
to the cathedral to hear him preach, drank in his earnest eloquence with
delight, and went forth from the house of God with haggard faces and
tottering steps, but with spirit still unsubdued. There were, indeed,
some secret plottings. A very few obscure traitors opened communications
with the enemy. But it was necessary that all such dealings should be
carefully concealed. None dared to utter publicly any words save words
of defiance and stubborn resolution. Even in that extremity the general
cry was "No surrender." And there were not wanting voices which, in low
tones, added, "First the horses and hides; and then the prisoners;
and then each other." It was afterwards related, half in jest, yet not
without a horrible mixture of earnest, that a corpulent citizen, whose
bulk presented a strange contrast to the skeletons which surrounded him,
thought it expedient to conceal himself from the numerous eyes which
followed him with cannibal looks whenever he appeared in the streets,
[251]
It was no slight aggravation of the sufferings of the garrison that
all this time the English ships were seen far off in Lough Foyle.
Communication between the fleet and the city was almost impossible.
One diver who had attempted to pass the boom was drowned. Another
was hanged. The language of signals was hardly intelligible. On the
thirteenth of July, however, a piece of paper sewed up in a cloth
button came to Walker's hands. It was a letter from Kirke, and contained
assurances of speedy relief. But more than a fortnight of intense misery
had since elapsed; and the hearts of the most sanguine were sick with
deferred hope. By no art could the provisions which were left be made to
hold out two days more, [252]
Just at this time Kirke received a despatch from England, which
contained positive orders that Londonderry should be relieved. He
accordingly determined to make an attempt which, as far as appears, he
might have made, with at least an equally fair prospect of success, six
weeks earlier, [253]
Among the merchant ships which had come to Lough Foyle under his convoy
was one called the Mountjoy. The master, Micaiah Browning, a native of
Londonderry, had brought from England a large cargo of provisions. He
had, it is said, repeatedly remonstrated against the inaction of
the armament. He now eagerly volunteered to take the first risk of
succouring his fellow citizens; and his offer was accepted. Andrew
Douglas, master of the Phoenix, who had on board a great quantity of
meal from Scotland, was willing to share the danger and the honour.
The two merchantmen were to be escorted by the Dartmouth frigate of
thirty-six guns, commanded by Captain John Leake, afterwards an admiral
of great fame.
It was the thirtieth of July. The sun had just set: the evening
sermon in the cathedral was over; and the heartbroken congregation
had separated, when the sentinels on the tower saw the sails of three
vessels coming up the Foyle. Soon there was a stir in the Irish camp.
The besiegers were on the alert for miles along both shores. The ships
were in extreme peril: for the river was low; and the only navigable
channel Tan very near to the left bank, where the head quarters of the
enemy had been fixed, and where the batteries were most numerous.
Leake performed his duty with a skill and spirit worthy of his noble
profession, exposed his frigate to cover the merchantmen, and used his
guns with great effect. At length the little squadron came to the place
of peril. Then the Mountjoy took the lead, and went right at the bottom.
The huge barricade cracked and gave way: but the shock was such that the
Mountjoy rebounded, and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph rose from
the banks: the Irish rushed to their boats, and were preparing to board;
but the Dartmouth poured on them a well directed broadside, which threw
them into disorder. Just then the Phoenix dashed at the breach which the
Mountjoy had made, and was in a moment within the fence. Meantime the
tide was rising fast. The Mountjoy began to move, and soon passed safe
through the broken stakes and floating spars. But her brave master was
no more. A shot from one of the batteries had struck him; and he died
by the most enviable of all deaths, in sight of the city which was his
birthplace, which was his home, and which had just been saved by his
courage and self-devotion from the most frightful form of destruction.
The night had closed in before the conflict at the boom began; but the
flash of the guns was seen, and the noise heard, by the lean and
ghastly multitude which covered the walls of the city. When the Mountjoy
grounded, and when the shout of triumph rose from the Irish on both
sides of the river, the hearts of the besieged died within them. One who
endured the unutterable anguish of that moment has told that they looked
fearfully livid in each other's eyes. Even after the barricade had been
passed, there was a terrible half hour of suspense. It was ten o'clock
before the ships arrived at the quay. The whole population was there
to welcome them. A screen made of casks filled with earth was hastily
thrown up to protect the landing place from the batteries on the other
side of the river; and then the work of unloading began. First were
rolled on shore barrels containing six thousand bushels of meal. Then
came great cheeses, casks of beef, flitches of bacon, kegs of butter,
sacks of Pease and biscuit, ankers of brandy. Not many hours before,
half a pound of tallow and three quarters of a pound of salted hide had
been weighed out with niggardly care to every fighting man. The ration
which each now received was three pounds of flour, two pounds of beef,
and a pint of Pease. It is easy to imagine with what tears grace was
said over the suppers of that evening. There was little sleep on either
side of the wall. The bonfires shone bright along the whole circuit of
the ramparts. The Irish guns continued to roar all night; and all night
the bells of the rescued city made answer to the Irish guns with a peal
of joyous defiance. Through the whole of the thirty-first of July the
batteries of the enemy continued to play. But, soon after the sun had
again gone down, flames were seen arising from the camp; and, when the
first of August dawned, a line of smoking ruins marked the site lately
occupied by the huts of the besiegers; and the citizens saw far off the
long column of pikes and standards retreating up the left bank of the
Foyle towards Strabane, [254]
So ended this great siege, the most memorable in the annals of the
British isles. It had lasted a hundred and five days. The garrison had
been reduced from about seven thousand effective men to about three
thousand. The loss of the besiegers cannot be precisely ascertained.
Walker estimated it at eight thousand men. It is certain from the
despatches of Avaux that the regiments which returned from the blockade
had been so much thinned that many of them were not more than two
hundred strong. Of thirty-six French gunners who had superintended the
cannonading, thirty-one had been killed or disabled, [255] The means
both of attack and of defence had undoubtedly been such as would have
moved the great warriors of the Continent to laughter; and this is the
very circumstance which gives so peculiar an interest to the history
of the contest. It was a contest, not between engineers, but between
nations; and the victory remained with the nation which, though inferior
in number, was superior in civilisation, in capacity for selfgovernment,
and in stubbornness of resolution, [256]
As soon as it was known that the Irish army had retired, a deputation
from the city hastened to Lough Foyle, and invited Kirk to take the
command. He came accompanied by a long train of officers, and was
received in state by the two Governors, who delivered up to him the
authority which, under the pressure of necessity, they had assumed.
He remained only a few days; but he had time to show enough of the
incurable vices of his character to disgust a population distinguished
by austere morals and ardent public spirit. There was, however, no
outbreak. The city was in the highest good humour. Such quantities of
provisions had been landed from the fleet, that there was in every house
a plenty never before known. A few days earlier a man had been glad to
obtain for twenty pence a mouthful of carrion scraped from the bones of
a starved horse. A pound of good beef was now sold for three halfpence.
Meanwhile all hands were busied in removing corpses which had been
thinly covered with earth, in filling up the holes which the shells
had ploughed in the ground, and in repairing the battered roofs of
the houses. The recollection of past dangers and privations, and the
consciousness of having deserved well of the English nation and of all
Protestant Churches, swelled the hearts of the townspeople with honest
pride. That pride grew stronger when they received from William a letter
acknowledging, in the most affectionate language, the debt which he owed
to the brave and trusty citizens of his good city. The whole population
crowded to the Diamond to hear the royal epistle read. At the close all
the guns on the ramparts sent forth a voice of joy: all the ships in
the river made answer: barrels of ale were broken up; and the health of
their Majesties was drunk with shouts and volleys of musketry.
Five generations have since passed away; and still the wall of
Londonderry is to the Protestants of Ulster what the trophy of Marathon
was to the Athenians. A lofty pillar, rising from a bastion which bore
during many weeks the heaviest fire of the enemy, is seen far up and far
down the Foyle. On the summit is the statue of Walker, such as when, in
the last and most terrible emergency, his eloquence roused the fainting
courage of his brethren. In one hand he grasps a Bible. The other,
pointing down the river, seems to direct the eyes of his famished
audience to the English topmasts in the distant bay. Such a monument was
well deserved: yet it was scarcely needed: for in truth the whole
city is to this day a monument of the great deliverance. The wall is
carefully preserved; nor would any plea of health or convenience be held
by the inhabitants sufficient to justify the demolition of that sacred
enclosure which, in the evil time, gave shelter to their race and their
religion, [257] The summit of the ramparts forms a pleasant walk. The
bastions have been turned into little gardens. Here and there, among
the shrubs and flowers, may be seen the old culverins which scattered
bricks, cased with lead, among the Irish ranks. One antique gun, the
gift of the Fishmongers of London, was distinguished, during the hundred
and five memorable days, by the loudness of its report, and still
bears the name of Roaring Meg. The cathedral is filled with relics and
trophies. In the vestibule is a huge shell, one of many hundreds of
shells which were thrown into the city. Over the altar are still seen
the French flagstaves, taken by the garrison in a desperate sally. The
white ensigns of the House of Bourbon have long been dust: but their
place has been supplied by new banners, the work of the fairest hands of
Ulster. The anniversary of the day on which the gates were closed, and
the anniversary of the day on which the siege was raised, have been
down to our own time celebrated by salutes, processions, banquets,
and sermons: Lundy has been executed in effigy; and the sword, said by
tradition to be that of Maumont, has, on great occasions, been carried
in triumph. There is still a Walker Club and a Murray Club. The humble
tombs of the Protestant captains have been carefully sought out,
repaired, and embellished. It is impossible not to respect the sentiment
which indicates itself by these tokens. It is a sentiment which belongs
to the higher and purer part of human nature, and which adds not a
little to the strength of states. A people which takes no pride in the
noble achievements of remote ancestors will never achieve any thing
worthy to be remembered with pride by remote descendants. Yet it is
impossible for the moralist or the statesman to look with unmixed
complacency on the solemnities with which Londonderry commemorates her
deliverance, and on the honours which she pays to those who saved her.
Unhappily the animosities of her brave champions have descended with
their glory. The faults which are ordinarily found in dominant castes
and dominant sects have not seldom shown themselves without disguise at
her festivities; and even with the expressions of pious gratitude which
have resounded from her pulpits have too often been mingled words of
wrath and defiance.
The Irish army which had retreated to Strabane remained there but a very
short time. The spirit of the troops had been depressed by their recent
failure, and was soon completely cowed by the news of a great disaster
in another quarter.
Three weeks before this time the Duke of Berwick had gained an
advantage over a detachment of the Enniskilleners, and had, by their own
confession, killed or taken more than fifty of them. They were in
hopes of obtaining some assistance from Kirke, to whom they had sent a
deputation; and they still persisted in rejecting all terms offered by
the enemy. It was therefore determined at Dublin that an attack should
be made upon them from several quarters at once. Macarthy, who had
been rewarded for his services in Munster with the title of Viscount
Mountcashel, marched towards Lough Erne from the east with three
regiments of foot, two regiments of dragoons, and some troops of
cavalry. A considerable force, which lay encamped near the mouth of the
river Drowes, was at the same time to advance from the west. The Duke
of Berwick was to come from the north, with such horse and dragoons
as could be spared from the army which was besieging Londonderry. The
Enniskilleners were not fully apprised of the whole plan which had been
laid for their destruction; but they knew that Macarthy was on the road
with a force exceeding any which they could bring into the field. Their
anxiety was in some degree relieved by the return of the deputation
which they had sent to Kirke. Kirke could spare no soldiers; but he had
sent some arms, some ammunition, and some experienced officers, of whom
the chief were Colonel Wolseley and Lieutenant Colonel Berry. These
officers had come by sea round the coast of Donegal, and had run up the
Line. On Sunday, the twenty-ninth of July, it was known that their boat
was approaching the island of Enniskillen. The whole population, male
and female, came to the shore to greet them. It was with difficulty,
that they made their way to the Castle through the crowds which hung
on them, blessing God that dear old England had not quite forgotten
the Englishmen who upheld her cause against great odds in the heart of
Ireland.
Wolseley seems to have been in every respect well qualified for his
post. He was a stanch Protestant, had distinguished himself among the
Yorkshiremen who rose up for the Prince of Orange and a free Parliament,
and had, if he is not belied, proved his zeal for liberty and pure
religion, by causing the Mayor of Scarborough, who had made a speech
in favour of King James, to be brought into the market place and well
tossed there in a blanket, [258] This vehement hatred of Popery was,
in the estimation of the men of Enniskillen, the first of all
qualifications for command: and Wolseley had other and more important
qualifications. Though himself regularly bred to war, he seems to have
had a peculiar aptitude for the management of irregular troops. He had
scarcely taken on himself the chief command when he received notice that
Mountcashel had laid siege to the Castle of Crum. Crum was the
frontier garrison of the Protestants of Fermanagh. The ruins of the
old fortifications are now among the attractions of a beautiful
pleasureground, situated on a woody promontory which overlooks Lough
Erne. Wolseley determined to raise the siege. He sent Berry forward with
such troops as could be instantly put in motion, and promised to follow
speedily with a larger force.
Berry, after marching some miles, encountered thirteen companies
of Macarthy's dragoons commanded by Anthony, the most brilliant and
accomplished of all who bore the name of Hamilton, but much less
successful as a soldier than as a courtier, a lover, and a writer.
Hamilton's dragoons ran at the first fire: he was severely wounded; and
his second in command was shot dead. Macarthy soon came up to support
Hamilton; and at the same time Wolseley came up to support Berry. The
hostile armies were now in presence of each other. Macarthy had above
five thousand men and several pieces of artillery. The Enniskilleners
were under three thousand; and they had marched in such haste that
they had brought only one day's provisions. It was therefore absolutely
necessary for them either to fight instantly or to retreat. Wolseley
determined to consult the men; and this determination, which, in
ordinary circumstances, would have been most unworthy of a general, was
fully justified by the peculiar composition and temper of the little
army, an army made up of gentlemen and yeomen fighting, not for pay, but
for their lands, their wives, their children, and their God. The
ranks were drawn up under arms; and the question was put, "Advance or
Retreat?" The answer was an universal shout of "Advance." Wolseley
gave out the word, "No Popery." It was received with loud applause. He
instantly made his dispositions for an attack. As he approached, the
enemy, to his great surprise, began to retire. The Enniskilleners were
eager to pursue with all speed: but their commander, suspecting a snare,
restrained their ardour, and positively forbade them to break their
ranks. Thus one army retreated and the other followed, in good order,
through the little town of Newton Butler. About a mile from that town
the Irish faced about, and made a stand. Their position was well chosen.
They were drawn up on a hill at the foot of which lay a deep bog. A
narrow paved causeway which ran across the bog was the only road by
which the cavalry of the Enniskilleners could advance; for on the right
and left were pools, turf pits, and quagmires, which afforded no footing
to horses. Macarthy placed his cannon in such a manner as to sweep this
causeway.
Wolseley ordered his infantry to the attack. They struggled through the
bog, made their way to firm ground, and rushed on the guns. There was
then a short and desperate fight. The Irish cannoneers stood gallantly
to their pieces till they were cut down to a man. The Enniskillen horse,
no longer in danger of being mowed down by the fire of the artillery,
came fast up the causeway. The Irish dragoons who had run away in the
morning were smitten with another panic, and, without striking a blow,
galloped from the field. The horse followed the example. Such was the
terror of the fugitives that many of them spurred hard till their beasts
fell down, and then continued to fly on foot, throwing away carbines,
swords, and even coats as incumbrances. The infantry, seeing themselves
deserted, flung down their pikes and muskets and ran for their lives.
The conquerors now gave loose to that ferocity which has seldom failed
to disgrace the civil wars of Ireland. The butchery was terrible. Near
fifteen hundred of the vanquished were put to the sword. About five
hundred more, in ignorance of the country, took a road which led to
Lough Erne. The lake was before them: the enemy behind: they plunged
into the waters and perished there. Macarthy, abandoned by his troops,
rushed into the midst of the pursuers and very nearly found the death
which he sought. He was wounded in several places: he was struck to the
ground; and in another moment his brains would have been knocked out
with the butt end of a musket, when he was recognised and saved. The
colonists lost only twenty men killed and fifty wounded. They took four
hundred prisoners, seven pieces of cannon, fourteen barrels of powder,
all the drums and all the colours of the vanquished enemy, [259]
The battle of Newton Butler was won on the same afternoon on which the
boom thrown over the Foyle was broken. At Strabane the news met the
Celtic army which was retreating from Londonderry. All was terror and
confusion: the tents were struck: the military stores were flung by
waggon loads into the waters of the Mourne; and the dismayed
Irish, leaving many sick and wounded to the mercy of the victorious
Protestants, fled to Omagh, and thence to Charlemont. Sarsfield, who
commanded at Sligo, found it necessary to abandon that town, which was
instantly occupied by a detachment of Kirke's troops, [260] Dublin was
in consternation. James dropped words which indicated an intention of
flying to the Continent. Evil tidings indeed came fast upon him. Almost
at the same time at which he learned that one of his armies had raised
the siege of Londonderry, and that another had been routed at Newton
Butler, he received intelligence scarcely less disheartening from
Scotland.
It is now necessary to trace the progress of those events to which
Scotland owes her political and her religious liberty, her prosperity
and her civilisation.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Revolution more violent in Scotland than in England--Elections
for the Convention; Rabbling of the Episcopal Clergy--State of
Edinburgh--Question of an Union between England and Scotland
raised--Wish of the English Low Churchmen to preserve Episcopacy
in Scotland--Opinions of William about Church Government in
Scotland--Comparative Strength of Religious Parties in Scotland--Letter
from William to the Scotch Convention--William's Instructions to
his Agents in Scotland; the Dalrymples--Melville--James's Agents in
Scotland: Dundee; Balcarras--Meeting of the Convention--Hamilton elected
President--Committee of Elections; Edinburgh Castle summoned--Dundee
threatened by the Covenanters--Letter from James to the
Convention--Effect of James's Letter--Flight of Dundee--Tumultuous
Sitting of the Convention--A Committee appointed to frame a Plan of
Government--Resolutions proposed by the Committee--William and
Mary proclaimed; the Claim of Right; Abolition of
Episcopacy--Torture--William and Mary accept the Crown of
Scotland--Discontent of the Covenanters--Ministerial Arrangements
in Scotland--Hamilton; Crawford--The Dalrymples; Lockhart;
Montgomery--Melville; Carstairs--The Club formed: Annandale; Ross--Hume;
Fletcher of Saltoun--War breaks out in the Highlands; State of the
Highlands--Peculiar Nature of Jacobitism in the Highlands--Jealousy
of the Ascendency of the Campbells--The Stewarts and Macnaghtens--The
Macleans; the Camerons: Lochiel--The Macdonalds; Feud between the
Macdonalds and Mackintoshes; Inverness--Inverness threatened by
Macdonald of Keppoch--Dundee appears in Keppoch's Camp--Insurrection
of the Clans hostile to the Campbells--Tarbet's Advice to the
Government--Indecisive Campaign in the Highlands--Military Character of
the Highlanders--Quarrels in the Highland Army--Dundee applies to James
for Assistance; the War in the Highlands suspended--Scruples of the
Covenanters about taking Arms for King William--The Cameronian
Regiment raised--Edinburgh Castle surrenders--Session of Parliament at
Edinburgh--Ascendancy of the Club--Troubles in Athol--The War breaks out
again in the Highlands--Death of Dundee--Retreat of Mackay--Effect of
the Battle of Killiecrankie; the Scottish Parliament adjourned--The
Highland Army reinforced--Skirmish at Saint Johnston's--Disorders in the
Highland Army--Mackay's Advice disregarded by the Scotch Ministers--The
Cameronians stationed at Dunkeld--The Highlanders attack the Cameronians
and are repulsed--Dissolution of the Highland Army; Intrigues of the
Club; State of the Lowlands
THE violence of revolutions is generally proportioned to the degree
of the maladministration which has produced them. It is therefore not
strange that the government of Scotland, having been during many years
far more oppressive and corrupt than the government of England, should
have fallen with a far heavier ruin. The movement against the last
king of the House of Stuart was in England conservative, in Scotland
destructive. The English complained, not of the law, but of the
violation of the law. They rose up against the first magistrate merely
in order to assert the supremacy of the law. They were for the most part
strongly attached to the Church established by law. Even in applying
that extraordinary remedy to which an extraordinary emergency compelled
them to have recourse, they deviated as little as possible from the
ordinary methods prescribed by the law. The Convention which met at
Westminster, though summoned by irregular writs, was constituted on the
exact model of a regular Parliament. No man was invited to the Upper
House whose right to sit there was not clear. The knights and burgesses
were chosen by those electors who would have been entitled to choose
the members of a House of Commons called under the great seal. The
franchises of the forty shilling freeholder, of the householder paying
scot and lot, of the burgage tenant, of the liveryman of London, of the
Master of Arts of Oxford, were respected. The sense of the constituent
bodies was taken with as little violence on the part of mobs, with as
little trickery on the part of returning officers, as at any
general election of that age. When at length the Estates met, their
deliberations were carried on with perfect freedom and in strict
accordance with ancient forms. There was indeed, after the first
flight of James, an alarming anarchy in London and in some parts of the
country. But that anarchy nowhere lasted longer than forty-eight hours.
From the day on which William reached Saint James's, not even the most
unpopular agents of the fallen government, not even the ministers of
the Roman Catholic Church, had any thing to fear from the fury of the
populace.
In Scotland the course of events was very different. There the law
itself was a grievance; and James had perhaps incurred more unpopularity
by enforcing it than by violating it. The Church established by law was
the most odious institution in the realm. The tribunals had pronounced
some sentences so flagitious, the Parliament had passed some acts so
oppressive, that, unless those sentences and those Acts were treated
as nullities, it would be impossible to bring together a Convention
commanding the public respect and expressing the public opinion. It was
hardly to be expected, for example, that the Whigs, in this day of their
power, would endure to see their hereditary leader, the son of a martyr,
the grandson of a martyr, excluded from the Parliament House in which
nine of his ancestors had sate as Earls of Argyle, and excluded by a
judgment on which the whole kingdom cried shame. Still less was it to be
expected that they would suffer the election of members for counties and
towns to be conducted according to the provisions of the existing law.
For under the existing law no elector could vote without swearing that
he renounced the Covenant, and that he acknowledged the Royal supremacy
in matters ecclesiastical, [261] Such an oath no rigid Presbyterian
could take. If such an oath had been exacted, the constituent bodies
would have been merely small knots of prelatists: the business of
devising securities against oppression would have been left to the
oppressors; and the great party which had been most active in effecting
the Revolution would, in an assembly sprung from the Revolution, have
had not a single representative, [262]
William saw that he must not think of paying to the laws of Scotland
that scrupulous respect which he had wisely and righteously paid to the
laws of England. It was absolutely necessary that he should determine
by his own authority how that Convention which was to meet at Edinburgh
should be chosen, and that he should assume the power of annulling some
judgments and some statutes. He accordingly summoned to the parliament
house several Lords who had been deprived of their honours by sentences
which the general voice loudly condemned as unjust; and he took on
himself to dispense with the Act which deprived Presbyterians of the
elective franchise.
The consequence was that the choice of almost all the shires and burghs
fell on Whig candidates. The defeated party complained loudly of foul
play, of the rudeness of the populace, and of the partiality of the
presiding magistrates; and these complaints were in many cases well
founded. It is not under such rulers as Lauderdale and Dundee that
nations learn justice and moderation, [263]
Nor was it only at the elections that the popular feeling, so long and
so severely compressed, exploded with violence. The heads and the hands
of the martyred Whigs were taken down from the gates of Edinburgh,
carried in procession by great multitudes to the cemeteries, and laid
in the earth with solemn respect, [264] It would have been well if the
public enthusiasm had manifested itself in no less praiseworthy
form. Unhappily throughout a large part of Scotland the clergy of the
Established Church were, to use the phrase then common, rabbled.
The morning of Christmas day was fixed for the commencement of these
outrages. For nothing disgusted the rigid Covenanter more than the
reverence paid by the prelatist to the ancient holidays of the Church.
That such reverence may be carried to an absurd extreme is true. But a
philosopher may perhaps be inclined to think the opposite extreme
not less absurd, and may ask why religion should reject the aid of
associations which exist in every nation sufficiently civilised to have
a calendar, and which are found by experience to have a powerful and
often a salutary effect. The Puritan, who was, in general, but too
ready to follow precedents and analogies drawn from the history and
jurisprudence of the Jews, might have found in the Old Testament quite
as clear warrant for keeping festivals in honour of great events as for
assassinating bishops and refusing quarter to captives. He certainly did
not learn from his master, Calvin, to hold such festivals in abhorrence;
for it was in consequence of the strenuous exertions of Calvin that
Christmas was, after an interval of some years, again observed by the
citizens of Geneva, [265] But there had arisen in Scotland Calvinists
who were to Calvin what Calvin was to Laud. To these austere fanatics
a holiday was an object of positive disgust and hatred. They long
continued in their solemn manifestoes to reckon it among the sins which
would one day bring down some fearful judgment on the land that the
Court of Session took a vacation in the last week of December, [266]
On Christmas day, therefore, the Covenanters held armed musters by
concert in many parts of the western shires. Each band marched to the
nearest manse, and sacked the cellar and larder of the minister, which
at that season were probably better stocked than usual. The priest of
Baal was reviled and insulted, sometimes beaten, sometimes ducked. His
furniture was thrown out of the windows; his wife and children turned
out of doors in the snow. He was then carried to the market place, and
exposed during some time as a malefactor. His gown was torn to shreds
over his head: if he had a prayer book in his pocket it was burned;
and he was dismissed with a charge, never, as he valued his life, to
officiate in the parish again. The work of reformation having been thus
completed, the reformers locked up the church and departed with the
keys. In justice to these men it must be owned that they had suffered
such oppression as may excuse, though it cannot justify, their violence;
and that, though they were rude even to brutality, they do not appear to
have been guilty of any intentional injury to life or limb, [267]
The disorder spread fast. In Ayrshire, Clydesdale, Nithisdale,
Annandale, every parish was visited by these turbulent zealots. About
two hundred curates--so the episcopal parish priests were called--were
expelled. The graver Covenanters, while they applauded the fervour of
their riotous brethren, were apprehensive that proceedings so irregular
might give scandal, and learned, with especial concern, that here and
there an Achan had disgraced the good cause by stooping to plunder the
Canaanites whom he ought only to have smitten. A general meeting of
ministers and elders was called for the purpose of preventing such
discreditable excesses. In this meeting it was determined that, for the
future, the ejection of the established clergy should be performed in
a more ceremonious manner. A form of notice was drawn up and served on
every curate in the Western Lowlands who had not yet been rabbled.
This notice was simply a threatening letter, commanding him to quit his
parish peaceably, on pain of being turned out by force, [268]
The Scottish Bishops, in great dismay, sent the Dean of Glasgow to
plead the cause of their persecuted Church at Westminster. The outrages
committed by the Covenanters were in the highest degree offensive
to William, who had, in the south of the island, protected even
Benedictines and Franciscans from insult and spoliation. But, though he
had, at the request of a large number of the noblemen and gentlemen of
Scotland, taken on himself provisionally the executive administration
of that kingdom, the means of maintaining order there were not at his
command. He had not a single regiment north of the Tweed, or indeed
within many miles of that river. It was vain to hope that mere words
would quiet a nation which had not, in any age, been very amenable to
control, and which was now agitated by hopes and resentments, such as
great revolutions, following great oppressions, naturally engender. A
proclamation was however put forth, directing that all people should lay
down their arms, and that, till the Convention should have settled the
government, the clergy of the Established Church should be suffered to
reside on their cures without molestation. But this proclamation, not
being supported by troops, was very little regarded. On the very day
after it was published at Glasgow, the venerable Cathedral of that city,
almost the only fine church of the middle ages which stands uninjured
in Scotland, was attacked by a crowd of Presbyterians from the meeting
houses, with whom were mingled many of their fiercer brethren from the
hills. It was a Sunday; but to rabble a congregation of prelatists
was held to be a work of necessity and mercy. The worshippers were
dispersed, beaten, and pelted with snowballs. It was indeed asserted
that some wounds were inflicted with much more formidable weapons, [269]
Edinburgh, the seat of government, was in a state of anarchy. The
Castle, which commanded the whole city, was still held for James by the
Duke of Gordon. The common people were generally Whigs. The College of
justice, a great forensic society composed of judges, advocates, writers
to the signet, and solicitors, was the stronghold of Toryism: for a
rigid test had during some years excluded Presbyterians from all the
departments of the legal profession. The lawyers, some hundreds in
number, formed themselves into a battalion of infantry, and for a time
effectually kept down the multitude. They paid, however, so much respect
to William's authority as to disband themselves when his proclamation
was published. But the example of obedience which they had set was not
imitated. Scarcely had they laid down their weapons, when Covenanters
from the west, who had done all that was to be done in the way of
pelting and hustling the curates of their own neighbourhood, came
dropping into Edinburgh, by tens and twenties, for the purpose of
protecting, or, if need should be, of overawing the Convention. Glasgow
alone sent four hundred of these men. It could hardly be doubted
that they were directed by some leader of great weight. They showed
themselves little in any public place: but it was known that every
cellar was filled with them; and it might well be apprehended that, at
the first signal, they would pour forth from their caverns, and appear
armed round the Parliament house, [270]
It might have been expected that every patriotic and enlightened
Scotchman would have earnestly desired to see the agitation appeased,
and some government established which might be able to protect property
and to enforce the law. An imperfect settlement which could be speedily
made might well appear to such a man preferable to a perfect settlement
which must be the work of time. Just at this moment, however, a party,
strong both in numbers and in abilities, raised a new and most important
question, which seemed not unlikely to prolong the interregnum till the
autumn. This party maintained that the Estates ought not immediately
to declare William and Mary King and Queen, but to propose to England a
treaty of union, and to keep the throne vacant till such a treaty should
be concluded on terms advantageous to Scotland, [271]
It may seem strange that a large portion of a people, whose patriotism,
exhibited, often in a heroic, and sometimes in a comic form, has long
been proverbial, should have been willing, nay impatient, to surrender
an independence which had been, through many ages, dearly prized and
manfully defended. The truth is that the stubborn spirit which the arms
of the Plantagenets and Tudors had been unable to subdue had begun to
yield to a very different kind of force. Customhouses and tariffs were
rapidly doing what the carnage of Falkirk and Halidon, of Flodden and of
Pinkie, had failed to do. Scotland had some experience of the effects
of an union. She had, near forty years before, been united to England
on such terms as England, flushed with conquest, chose to dictate. That
union was inseparably associated in the minds of the vanquished people
with defeat and humiliation. And yet even that union, cruelly as it had
wounded the pride of the Scots, had promoted their prosperity. Cromwell,
with wisdom and liberality rare in his age, had established the most
complete freedom of trade between the dominant and the subject country.
While he governed, no prohibition, no duty, impeded the transit of
commodities from any part of the island to any other. His navigation
laws imposed no restraint on the trade of Scotland. A Scotch vessel was
at liberty to carry a Scotch cargo to Barbadoes, and to bring the sugars
of Barbadoes into the port of London, [272] The rule of the Protector
therefore had been propitious to the industry and to the physical
wellbeing of the Scottish people. Hating him and cursing him, they could
not help thriving under him, and often, during the administration of
their legitimate princes, looked back with regret to the golden days of
the usurper, [273]
The Restoration came, and changed every thing. The Scots regained
their independence, and soon began to find that independence had its
discomfort as well as its dignity. The English parliament treated them
as aliens and as rivals. A new Navigation Act put them on almost the
same footing with the Dutch. High duties, and in some cases prohibitory
duties, were imposed on the products of Scottish industry. It is not
wonderful that a nation eminently industrious, shrewd, and enterprising,
a nation which, having been long kept back by a sterile soil and
a severe climate, was just beginning to prosper in spite of these
disadvantages, and which found its progress suddenly stopped, should
think itself cruelly treated. Yet there was no help. Complaint was vain.
Retaliation was impossible. The Sovereign, even if he had the wish, had
not the power, to bear himself evenly between his large and his small
kingdom, between the kingdom from which he drew an annual revenue of a
million and a half and the kingdom from which he drew an annual revenue
of little more than sixty thousand pounds. He dared neither to refuse
his assent to any English law injurious to the trade of Scotland, nor to
give his assent to any Scotch law injurious to the trade of England.
The complaints of the Scotch, however, were so loud that Charles, in
1667, appointed Commissioners to arrange the terms of a commercial
treaty between the two British kingdoms. The conferences were soon
broken off; and all that passed while they continued proved that
there was only one way in which Scotland could obtain a share of the
commercial prosperity which England at that time enjoyed, [274] The
Scotch must become one people with the English. The Parliament which
had hitherto sate at Edinburgh must be incorporated with the Parliament
which sate at Westminster. The sacrifice could not but be painfully
felt by a brave and haughty people, who had, during twelve generations,
regarded the southern domination with deadly aversion, and whose hearts
still swelled at the thought of the death of Wallace and of the triumphs
of Bruce. There were doubtless many punctilious patriots who would have
strenuously opposed an union even if they could have foreseen that
the effect of an union would be to make Glasgow a greater city than
Amsterdam, and to cover the dreary Lothians with harvests and woods,
neat farmhouses and stately mansions. But there was also a large class
which was not disposed to throw away great and substantial advantages in
order to preserve mere names and ceremonies; and the influence of this
class was such that, in the year 1670, the Scotch Parliament made direct
overtures to England, [275] The King undertook the office of mediator;
and negotiators were named on both sides; but nothing was concluded.
The question, having slept during eighteen years, was suddenly revived
by the Revolution. Different classes, impelled by different motives,
concurred on this point. With merchants, eager to share in the
advantages of the West Indian Trade, were joined active and aspiring
politicians who wished to exhibit their abilities in a more conspicuous
theatre than the Scottish Parliament House, and to collect riches from
a more copious source than the Scottish treasury. The cry for union was
swelled by the voices of some artful Jacobites, who merely wished to
cause discord and delay, and who hoped to attain this end by mixing up
with the difficult question which it was the especial business of
the Convention to settle another question more difficult still. It is
probable that some who disliked the ascetic habits and rigid discipline
of the Presbyterians wished for an union as the only mode of maintaining
prelacy in the northern part of the island. In an united Parliament the
English members must greatly preponderate; and in England the bishops
were held in high honour by the great majority of the population. The
Episcopal Church of Scotland, it was plain, rested on a narrow basis,
and would fall before the first attack. The Episcopal Church of Great
Britain might have a foundation broad and solid enough to withstand all
assaults.
Whether, in 1689, it would have been possible to effect a civil union
without a religious union may well be doubted. But there can be no doubt
that a religious union would have been one of the greatest calamities
that could have befallen either kingdom. The union accomplished in 1707
has indeed been a great blessing both to England and to Scotland. But
it has been a blessing because, in constituting one State, it left two
Churches. The political interest of the contracting parties was the
same: but the ecclesiastical dispute between them was one which admitted
of no compromise. They could therefore preserve harmony only by agreeing
to differ. Had there been an amalgamation of the hierarchies, there
never would have been an amalgamation of the nations. Successive
Mitchells would have fired at successive Sharpes. Five generations of
Claverhouses would have butchered five generations of Camerons. Those
marvellous improvements which have changed the face of Scotland would
never have been effected. Plains now rich with harvests would have
remained barren moors. Waterfalls which now turn the wheels of immense
factories would have resounded in a wilderness. New Lanark would still
have been a sheepwalk, and Greenock a fishing hamlet. What little
strength Scotland could under such a system have possessed must, in an
estimate of the resources of Great Britain, have been, not added, but
deducted. So encumbered, our country never could have held, either
in peace or in war, a place in the first rank of nations. We are
unfortunately not without the means of judging of the effect which may
be produced on the moral and physical state of a people by establishing,
in the exclusive enjoyment of riches and dignity a Church loved and
reverenced only by the few, and regarded by the many with religious
and national aversion. One such Church is quite burden enough for the
energies of one empire.
But these things, which to us, who have been taught by a bitter
experience, seem clear, were by no means clear in 1689, even to very
tolerant and enlightened politicians. In truth the English Low Churchmen
were, if possible, more anxious than the English High Churchmen to
preserve Episcopacy in Scotland. It is a remarkable fact that Burnet,
who was always accused of wishing to establish the Calvinistic
discipline in the south of the island, incurred great unpopularity among
his own countrymen by his efforts to uphold prelacy in the north. He was
doubtless in error: but his error is to be attributed to a cause which
does him no discredit. His favourite object, an object unattainable
indeed, yet such as might well fascinate a large intellect and a
benevolent heart, had long been an honourable treaty between the
Anglican Church and the Nonconformists. He thought it most unfortunate
that one opportunity of concluding such a treaty should have been
lost at the time of the Restoration. It seemed to him that another
opportunity was afforded by the Revolution. He and his friends were
eagerly pushing forward Nottingham's Comprehension Bill, and were
flattering themselves with vain hopes of success. But they felt
that there could hardly be a Comprehension in one of the two British
kingdoms, unless there were also a Comprehension in the other.
Concession must be purchased by concession. If the Presbyterian
pertinaciously refused to listen to any terms of compromise where he was
strong, it would be almost impossible to obtain for him liberal terms of
compromise where he was weak. Bishops must therefore be allowed to keep
their sees in Scotland, in order that divines not ordained by Bishops
might be allowed to hold rectories and canonries in England.
Thus the cause of the Episcopalians in the north and the cause of the
Presbyterians in the south were bound up together in a manner which
might well perplex even a skilful statesman. It was happy for our
country that the momentous question which excited so many strong
passions, and which presented itself in so many different points
of view, was to be decided by such a man as William. He listened to
Episcopalians, to Latitudinarians, to Presbyterians, to the Dean of
Glasgow who pleaded for the apostolical succession, to Burnet who
represented the danger of alienating the Anglican clergy, to Carstairs
who hated prelacy with the hatred of a man whose thumbs were deeply
marked by the screws of prelatists. Surrounded by these eager advocates,
William remained calm and impartial. He was indeed eminently qualified
by his situation as well as by his personal qualities to be the umpire
in that great contention. He was the King of a prelatical kingdom. He
was the Prime Minister of a presbyterian republic. His unwillingness
to offend the Anglican Church of which he was the head, and his
unwillingness to offend the reformed Churches of the Continent which
regarded him as a champion divinely sent to protect them against the
French tyranny, balanced each other, and kept him from leaning unduly
to either side. His conscience was perfectly neutral. For it was his
deliberate opinion that no form of ecclesiastical polity was of divine
institution. He dissented equally from the school of Laud and from
the school of Cameron, from the men who held that there could not be a
Christian Church without Bishops, and from the men who held that there
could not be a Christian Church without synods. Which form of government
should be adopted was in his judgment a question of mere expediency. He
would probably have preferred a temper between the two rival systems,
a hierarchy in which the chief spiritual functionaries should have been
something more than moderators and something less than prelates. But he
was far too wise a man to think of settling such a matter according to
his own personal tastes. He determined therefore that, if there was on
both sides a disposition to compromise, he would act as mediator. But,
if it should prove that the public mind of England and the public mind
of Scotland had taken the ply strongly in opposite directions, he would
not attempt to force either nation into conformity with the opinion
of the other. He would suffer each to have its own church, and would
content himself with restraining both churches from persecuting
nonconformists, and from encroaching on the functions of the civil
magistrate.
The language which he held to those Scottish Episcopalians who
complained to him of their sufferings and implored his protection was
well weighed and well guarded, but clear and ingenuous. He wished, he
said, to preserve, if possible, the institution to which they were
so much attached, and to grant at the same time entire liberty of
conscience to that party which could not be reconciled to any deviation
from the Presbyterian model. But the Bishops must take care that they
did not, by their own rashness and obstinacy, put it out of his power to
be of any use to them. They must also distinctly understand that he was
resolved not to force on Scotland by the sword a form of ecclesiastical
government which she detested. If, therefore; it should be found that
prelacy could be maintained only by arms, he should yield to the general
sentiment, and should merely do his best to obtain for the Episcopalian
minority permission to worship God in freedom and safety, [276]
It is not likely that, even if the Scottish Bishops had, as William
recommended, done all that meekness and prudence could do to conciliate
their countrymen, episcopacy could, under any modification, have been
maintained. It was indeed asserted by writers of that generation, and
has been repeated by writers of our generation, that the Presbyterians
were not, before the Revolution, the majority of the people of Scotland,
[277] But in this assertion there is an obvious fallacy. The effective
strength of sects is not to be ascertained merely by counting heads. An
established church, a dominant church, a church which has the exclusive
possession of civil honours and emoluments, will always rank among its
nominal members multitudes who have no religion at all; multitudes who,
though not destitute of religion, attend little to theological disputes,
and have no scruple about conforming to the mode of worship which
happens to be established; and multitudes who have scruples about
conforming, but whose scruples have yielded to worldly motives. On the
other hand, every member of an oppressed church is a man who has a
very decided preference for that church. A person who, in the time
of Diocletian, joined in celebrating the Christian mysteries might
reasonably be supposed to be a firm believer in Christ. But it would be
a very great mistake to imagine that one single Pontiff or Augur in the
Roman Senate was a firm believer in Jupiter. In Mary's reign, every
body who attended the secret meetings of the Protestants was a real
Protestant: but hundreds of thousands went to mass who, as appeared
before she had been dead a month, were not real Roman Catholics. If,
under the Kings of the House of Stuart, when a Presbyterian was excluded
from political power and from the learned professions, was daily annoyed
by informers, by tyrannical magistrates, by licentious dragoons, and
was in danger of being hanged if he heard a sermon in the open air,
the population of Scotland was not very unequally divided between
Episcopalians and Presbyterians, the rational inference is that more
than nineteen twentieths of those Scotchmen whose conscience was
interested in the matter were Presbyterians, and that not one Scotchman
in twenty was decidedly and on conviction an Episcopalian. Against such
odds the Bishops had but little chance; and whatever chance they had
they made haste to throw away; some of them because they sincerely
believed that their allegiance was still due to James; others probably
because they apprehended that William would not have the power, even if
he had the will, to serve them, and that nothing but a counterrevolution
in the State could avert a revolution in the Church.
As the new King of England could not be at Edinburgh during the sitting
of the Scottish Convention, a letter from him to the Estates was
prepared with great skill. In this document he professed warm attachment
to the Protestant religion, but gave no opinion touching those questions
about which Protestants were divided. He had observed, he said, with
great satisfaction that many of the Scottish nobility and gentry with
whom he had conferred in London were inclined to an union of the two
British kingdoms. He was sensible how much such an union would conduce
to the happiness of both; and he would do all in his power towards the
accomplishing of so good a work.
It was necessary that he should allow a large discretion to his
confidential agents at Edinburgh. The private instructions with which he
furnished those persons could not be minute, but were highly judicious.
He charged them to ascertain to the best of their power the real sense
of the Convention, and to be guided by it. They must remember that the
first object was to settle the government. To that object every
other object, even the union, must be postponed. A treaty between two
independent legislatures, distant from each other several days' journey,
must necessarily be a work of time; and the throne could not safely
remain vacant while the negotiations were pending. It was therefore
important that His Majesty's agents should be on their guard against the
arts of persons who, under pretence of promoting the union, might really
be contriving only to prolong the interregnum. If the Convention should
be bent on establishing the Presbyterian form of church government,
William desired that his friends would do all in their power to prevent
the triumphant sect from retaliating what it had suffered, [278]
The person by whose advice William appears to have been at this time
chiefly guided as to Scotch politics was a Scotchman of great abilities
and attainments, Sir James Dalrymple of Stair, the founder of a family
eminently distinguished at the bar, on the bench, in the senate,
in diplomacy, in arms, and in letters, but distinguished also by
misfortunes and misdeeds which have furnished poets and novelists with
materials for the darkest and most heartrending tales. Already Sir James
had been in mourning for more than one strange and terrible death. One
of his sons had died by poison. One of his daughters had poniarded her
bridegroom on the wedding night. One of his grandsons had in boyish
sport been slain by another. Savage libellers asserted, and some of the
superstitious vulgar believed, that calamities so portentous were the
consequences of some connection between the unhappy race and the powers
of darkness. Sir James had a wry neck; and he was reproached with this
misfortune as if it had been a crime, and was told that it marked him
out as a man doomed to the gallows. His wife, a woman of great ability,
art, and spirit, was popularly nicknamed the Witch of Endor. It was
gravely said that she had cast fearful spells on those whom she hated,
and that she had been seen in the likeness of a cat seated on the cloth
of state by the side of the Lord High Commissioner. The man, however,
over whose roof so many curses appeared to hang did not, as far as we
can now judge, fall short of that very low standard of morality which
was generally attained by politicians of his age and nation. In force of
mind and extent of knowledge he was superior to them all. In his youth
he had borne arms: he had then been a professor of philosophy: he
had then studied law, and had become, by general acknowledgment, the
greatest jurist that his country had produced. In the days of the
Protectorate, he had been a judge. After the Restoration, he had made
his peace with the royal family, had sate in the Privy Council, and
had presided with unrivalled ability in the Court of Session. He had
doubtless borne a share in many unjustifiable acts; but there were
limits which he never passed. He had a wonderful power of giving to
any proposition which it suited him to maintain a plausible aspect of
legality and even of justice; and this power he frequently abused.
But he was not, like many of those among whom he lived, impudently and
unscrupulously servile. Shame or conscience generally restrained him
from committing any bad action for which his rare ingenuity could not
frame a specious defence; and he was seldom in his place at the council
board when any thing outrageously unjust or cruel was to be done. His
moderation at length gave offence to the Court. He was deprived of his
high office, and found himself in so disagreeable a situation that he
retired to Holland. There he employed himself in correcting the great
work on jurisprudence which has preserved his memory fresh down to our
own time. In his banishment he tried to gain the favour of his fellow
exiles, who naturally regarded him with suspicion. He protested, and
perhaps with truth, that his hands were pure from the blood of the
persecuted Covenanters. He made a high profession of religion, prayed
much, and observed weekly days of fasting and humiliation. He even
consented, after much hesitation, to assist with his advice and his
credit the unfortunate enterprise of Argyle. When that enterprise had
failed, a prosecution was instituted at Edinburgh against Dalrymple;
and his estates would doubtless have been confiscated had they not
been saved by an artifice which subsequently became common among the
politicians of Scotland. His eldest son and heir apparent, John, took
the side of the government, supported the dispensing power, declared
against the Test, and accepted the place of Lord Advocate, when Sir
George Mackenzie, after holding out through ten years of foul drudgery,
at length showed signs of flagging. The services of the younger
Dalrymple were rewarded by a remission of the forfeiture which the
offences of the elder had incurred. Those services indeed were not to
be despised. For Sir John, though inferior to his father in depth and
extent of legal learning, was no common man. His knowledge was great and
various: his parts were quick; and his eloquence was singularly ready
and graceful. To sanctity he made no pretensions. Indeed Episcopalians
and Presbyterians agreed in regarding him as little better than an
atheist. During some months Sir John at Edinburgh affected to condemn
the disloyalty of his unhappy parent Sir James; and Sir James at Leyden
told his Puritan friends how deeply he lamented the wicked compliances
of his unhappy child Sir John.
The Revolution came, and brought a large increase of wealth and honours
to the House of Stair. The son promptly changed sides, and cooperated
ably and zealously with the father. Sir James established himself in
London for the purpose of giving advice to William on Scotch affairs.
Sir John's post was in the Parliament House at Edinburgh. He was not
likely to find any equal among the debaters there, and was prepared to
exert all his powers against the dynasty which he had lately served,
[279]
By the large party which was zealous for the Calvinistic church
government John Dalrymple was regarded with incurable distrust and
dislike. It was therefore necessary that another agent should be
employed to manage that party. Such an agent was George Melville,
Lord Melville, a nobleman connected by affinity with the unfortunate
Monmouth, and with that Leslie who had unsuccessfully commanded the
Scotch army against Cromwell at Dunbar. Melville had always been
accounted a Whig and a Presbyterian. Those who speak of him most
favourably have not ventured to ascribe to him eminent intellectual
endowments or exalted public spirit. But he appears from his letters
to have been by no means deficient in that homely prudence the want
of which has often been fatal to men of brighter genius and of purer
virtue. That prudence had restrained him from going very far in
opposition to the tyranny of the Stuarts: but he had listened while his
friends talked about resistance, and therefore, when the Rye House plot
was discovered, thought it expedient to retire to the Continent. In his
absence he was accused of treason, and was convicted on evidence which
would not have satisfied any impartial tribunal. He was condemned to
death: his honours and lands were declared forfeit: his arms were torn
with contumely out of the Heralds' book; and his domains swelled the
estate of the cruel and rapacious Perth. The fugitive meanwhile,
with characteristic wariness, lived quietly on the Continent, and
discountenanced the unhappy projects of his kinsman Monmouth, but
cordially approved of the enterprise of the Prince of Orange.
Illness had prevented Melville from sailing with the Dutch expedition:
but he arrived in London a few hours after the new Sovereigns had been
proclaimed there. William instantly sent him down to Edinburgh, in the
hope, as it should seem, that the Presbyterians would be disposed to
listen to moderate counsels proceeding from a man who was attached to
their cause, and who had suffered for it. Melville's second son, David,
who had inherited, through his mother, the title of Earl of Leven, and
who had acquired some military experience in the service of the Elector
of Brandenburg, had the honour of being the bearer of a letter from the
new King of England to the Scottish Convention, [280]
James had intrusted the conduct of his affairs in Scotland to John
Graham, Viscount Dundee, and Colin Lindsay, Earl of Balcarras. Dundee
had commanded a body of Scottish troops which had marched into England
to oppose the Dutch: but he had found, in the inglorious campaign which
had been fatal to the dynasty of Stuart, no opportunity of displaying
the courage and military skill which those who most detest his merciless
nature allow him to have possessed. He lay with his forces not far from
Watford, when he was informed that James had fled from Whitehall, and
that Feversham had ordered all the royal army to disband. The Scottish
regiments were thus left, without pay or provisions, in the midst of a
foreign and indeed a hostile nation. Dundee, it is said, wept with grief
and rage. Soon, however, more cheering intelligence arrived from various
quarters. William wrote a few lines to say that, if the Scots would
remain quiet, he would pledge his honour for their safety; and, some
hours later, it was known that James had returned to his capital. Dundee
repaired instantly to London, [281] There he met his friend Balcarras,
who had just arrived from Edinburgh. Balcarras, a man distinguished
by his handsome person and by his accomplishments, had, in his youth,
affected the character of a patriot, but had deserted the popular cause,
had accepted a seat in the Privy Council, had become a tool of Perth
and Melfort, and bad been one of the Commissioners who were appointed
to execute the office of Treasurer when Queensberry was disgraced for
refusing to betray the interests of the Protestant religion, [282]
Dundee and Balcarras went together to Whitehall, and had the honour of
accompanying James in his last walk, up and down the Mall. He told them
that he intended to put his affairs in Scotland under their management.
"You, my Lord Balcarras, must undertake the civil business: and you, my
Lord Dundee, shall have a commission from me to command the troops."
The two noblemen vowed that they would prove themselves deserving of his
confidence, and disclaimed all thought of making their peace with the
Prince of Orange, [283]
On the following day James left Whitehall for ever; and the Prince of
Orange arrived at Saint James's. Both Dundee and Balcarras swelled the
crowd which thronged to greet the deliverer, and were not ungraciously
received. Both were well known to him. Dundee had served under him on
the Continent; [284] and the first wife of Balcarras had been a lady of
the House of Orange, and had worn, on her wedding day, a superb pair of
emerald earrings, the gift of her cousin the Prince. [285]
The Scottish Whigs, then assembled in great numbers at Westminster,
earnestly pressed William to proscribe by name four or five men who had,
during the evil times, borne a conspicuous part in the proceedings of
the Privy Council at Edinburgh. Dundee and Balcarras were particularly
mentioned. But the Prince had determined that, as far as his power
extended, all the past should be covered with a general amnesty, and
absolutely refused to make any declaration which could drive to despair
even the most guilty of his uncle's servants.
Balcarras went repeatedly to Saint James's, had several audiences of
William, professed deep respect for his Highness, and owned that King
James had committed great errors, but would not promise to concur in
a vote of deposition. William gave no sign of displeasure, but said at
parting: "Take care, my Lord, that you keep within the law; for, if you
break it, you must expect to be left to it." [286]
Dundee seems to have been less ingenuous. He employed the mediation
of Burnet, opened a negotiation with Saint James's, declared himself
willing to acquiesce in the new order of things, obtained from William
a promise of protection, and promised in return to live peaceably. Such
credit was given to his professions that he was suffered to travel down
to Scotland under the escort of a troop of cavalry. Without such an
escort the man of blood, whose name was never mentioned but with
a shudder at the hearth of any Presbyterian family, would, at that
conjuncture, have had but a perilous journey through Berwickshire and
the Lothians, [287]
February was drawing to a close when Dundee and Balcarras reached
Edinburgh. They had some hope that they might be at the head of a
majority in the Convention. They therefore exerted themselves vigorously
to consolidate and animate their party. They assured the rigid
royalists, who had a scruple about sitting in an assembly convoked by
an usurper, that the rightful King particularly wished no friend of
hereditary monarchy to be absent. More than one waverer was kept steady
by being assured in confident terms that a speedy restoration was
inevitable. Gordon had determined to surrender the castle, and had begun
to remove his furniture: but Dundee and Balcarras prevailed on him to
hold out some time longer. They informed him that they had received from
Saint Germains full powers to adjourn the Convention to Stirling, and
that, if things went ill at Edinburgh, those powers would be used, [288]
At length the fourteenth of March, the day fixed for the meeting of the
Estates, arrived, and the Parliament House was crowded. Nine prelates
were in their places. When Argyle presented himself, a single lord
protested against the admission of a person whom a legal sentence,
passed in due form, and still unreversed, had deprived of the honours
of the peerage. But this objection was overruled by the general sense
of the assembly. When Melville appeared, no voice was raised against his
admission. The Bishop of Edinburgh officiated as chaplain, and made it
one of his petitions that God would help and restore King James, [289]
It soon appeared that the general feeling of the Convention was by no
means in harmony with this prayer. The first matter to be decided was
the choice of a President. The Duke of Hamilton was supported by
the Whigs, the Marquess of Athol by the Jacobites. Neither candidate
possessed, and neither deserved, the entire confidence of his
supporters. Hamilton had been a Privy Councillor of James, had borne a
part in many unjustifiable acts, and had offered but a very cautious and
languid opposition to the most daring attacks on the laws and religion
of Scotland. Not till the Dutch guards were at Whitehall had he ventured
to speak out. Then he had joined the victorious party, and had assured
the Whigs that he had pretended to be their enemy, only in order that he
might, without incurring suspicion, act as their friend. Athol was
still less to be trusted. His abilities were mean, his temper
false, pusillanimous, and cruel. In the late reign he had gained a
dishonourable notoriety by the barbarous actions of which he had been
guilty in Argyleshire. He had turned with the turn of fortune, and
had paid servile court to the Prince of Orange, but had been coldly
received, and had now, from mere mortification, come back to the party
which he had deserted, [290] Neither of the rival noblemen had chosen
to stake the dignities and lands of his house on the issue of the
contention between the rival Kings. The eldest son of Hamilton had
declared for James, and the eldest son of Athol for William, so that, in
any event, both coronets and both estates were safe.
But in Scotland the fashionable notions touching political morality
were lax; and the aristocratical sentiment was strong. The Whigs were
therefore willing to forget that Hamilton had lately sate in the council
of James. The Jacobites were equally willing to forget that Athol had
lately fawned on William. In political inconsistency those two great
lords were far indeed from standing by themselves; but in dignity and
power they had scarcely an equal in the assembly. Their descent was
eminently illustrious: their influence was immense: one of them could
raise the Western Lowlands: the other could bring into the field an
army of northern mountaineers. Round these chiefs therefore the hostile
factions gathered.
The votes were counted; and it appeared that Hamilton had a majority
of forty. The consequence was that about twenty of the defeated party
instantly passed over to the victors, [291] At Westminster such a
defection would have been thought strange; but it seems to have caused
little surprise at Edinburgh. It is a remarkable circumstance that the
same country should have produced in the same age the most wonderful
specimens of both extremes of human nature. No class of men mentioned in
history has ever adhered to a principle with more inflexible pertinacity
than was found among the Scotch Puritans. Fine and imprisonment, the
sheers and the branding iron, the boot, the thumbscrew, and the gallows
could not extort from the stubborn Covenanter one evasive word on which
it was possible to put a sense inconsistent with his theological system.
Even in things indifferent he would hear of no compromise; and he was
but too ready to consider all who recommended prudence and charity as
traitors to the cause of truth. On the other hand, the Scotchmen of that
generation who made a figure in the Parliament House and in the Council
Chamber were the most dishonest and unblushing timeservers that the
world has ever seen. The English marvelled alike at both classes. There
were indeed many stouthearted nonconformists in the South; but scarcely
any who in obstinacy, pugnacity, and hardihood could bear a comparison
with the men of the school of Cameron. There were many knavish
politicians in the South; but few so utterly destitute of morality, and
still fewer so utterly destitute of shame, as the men of the school of
Lauderdale. Perhaps it is natural that the most callous and impudent
vice should be found in the near neighbourhood of unreasonable and
impracticable virtue. Where enthusiasts are ready to destroy or to
be destroyed for trifles magnified into importance by a squeamish
conscience, it is not strange that the very name of conscience should
become a byword of contempt to cool and shrewd men of business.
The majority, reinforced by the crowd of deserters from the minority,
proceeded to name a Committee of Elections. Fifteen persons were chosen,
and it soon appeared that twelve of these were not disposed to examine
severely into the regularity of any proceeding of which the result had
been to send up a Whig to the Parliament House. The Duke of Hamilton
is said to have been disgusted by the gross partiality of his own
followers, and to have exerted himself, with but little success, to
restrain their violence, [292]
Before the Estates proceeded to deliberate on the business for which
they had met, they thought it necessary to provide for their own
security. They could not be perfectly at ease while the roof under which
they sate was commanded by the batteries of the Castle. A deputation
was therefore sent to inform Gordon that the Convention required him
to evacuate the fortress within twenty-four hours, and that, if he
complied, his past conduct should not be remembered against him. He
asked a night for consideration. During that night his wavering mind was
confirmed by the exhortations of Dundee and Balcarras. On the morrow he
sent an answer drawn in respectful but evasive terms. He was very far,
he declared, from meditating harm to the City of Edinburgh. Least of all
could he harbour any thought of molesting an august assembly which he
regarded with profound reverence. He would willingly give bond for his
good behaviour to the amount of twenty thousand pounds sterling. But he
was in communication with the government now established in England. He
was in hourly expectation of important despatches from that government;
and, till they arrived, he should not feel himself justified in
resigning his command. These excuses were not admitted. Heralds and
trumpeters were sent to summon the Castle in form, and to denounce the
penalties of high treason against those who should continue to occupy
that fortress in defiance of the authority of the Estates. Guards were
at the same time posted to intercept all communication between the
garrison and the city, [293]
Two days had been spent in these preludes; and it was expected that
on the third morning the great contest would begin. Meanwhile the
population of Edinburgh was in an excited state. It had been discovered
that Dundee had paid visits to the Castle; and it was believed that his
exhortations had induced the garrison to hold out. His old soldiers were
known to be gathering round him; and it might well be apprehended that
he would make some desperate attempt. He, on the other hand, had been
informed that the Western Covenanters who filled the cellars of the city
had vowed vengeance on him: and, in truth, when we consider that their
temper was singularly savage and implacable; that they had been taught
to regard the slaying of a persecutor as a duty; that no examples
furnished by Holy Writ had been more frequently held up to their
admiration than Ehud stabbing Eglon, and Samuel hewing Agag limb from
limb; that they had never heard any achievement in the history of their
own country more warmly praised by their favourite teachers than the
butchery of Cardinal Beatoun and of Archbishop Sharpe; we may well
wonder that a man who had shed the blood of the saints like water should
have been able to walk the High Street in safety during a single
day. The enemy whom Dundee had most reason to fear was a youth of
distinguished courage and abilities named William Cleland. Cleland had,
when little more than sixteen years old, borne arms in that insurrection
which had been put down at Bothwell Bridge. He had since disgusted some
virulent fanatics by his humanity and moderation. But with the great
body of Presbyterians his name stood high. For with the strict morality
and ardent zeal of a Puritan he united some accomplishments of which few
Puritans could boast. His manners were polished, and his literary and
scientific attainments respectable. He was a linguist, mathematician,
and a poet. It is true that his hymns, odes, ballads, and Hudibrastic
satires are of very little intrinsic value; but, when it is considered
that he was a mere boy when most of them were written, it must be
admitted that they show considerable vigour of mind. He was now at
Edinburgh: his influence among the West Country Whigs assembled there
was great: he hated Dundee with deadly hatred, and was believed to be
meditating some act of violence, [294]
On the fifteenth of March Dundee received information that some of the
Covenanters had bound themselves together to slay him and Sir George
Mackenzie, whose eloquence and learning, long prostituted to the service
of tyranny, had made him more odious to the Presbyterians than any
other man of the gown. Dundee applied to Hamilton for protection, and
Hamilton advised him to bring the matter under the consideration of the
Convention at the next sitting, [295]
Before that sitting, a person named Crane arrived from France, with a
letter addressed by the fugitive King to the Estates. The letter was
sealed: the bearer, strange to say, was not furnished with a copy for
the information of the heads of the Jacobite party; nor did he bring any
message, written or verbal, to either of James's agents. Balcarras and
Dundee were mortified by finding that so little confidence was reposed
in them, and were harassed by painful doubts touching the contents of
the document on which so much depended. They were willing, however, to
hope for the best. King James could not, situated as he was, be so ill
advised as to act in direct opposition to the counsel and entreaties
of his friends. His letter, when opened, must be found to contain such
gracious assurances as would animate the royalists and conciliate the
moderate Whigs. His adherents, therefore, determined that it should be
produced.
When the Convention reassembled on the morning of Saturday the sixteenth
of March, it was proposed that measures should be taken for the personal
security of the members. It was alleged that the life of Dundee had been
threatened; that two men of sinister appearance had been watching the
house where he lodged, and had been heard to say that they would use the
dog as he had used them. Mackenzie complained that he too was in danger,
and, with his usual copiousness and force of language, demanded the
protection of the Estates. But the matter was lightly treated by the
majority: and the Convention passed on to other business, [296]
It was then announced that Crane was at the door of the Parliament
House. He was admitted. The paper of which he was in charge was laid on
the table. Hamilton remarked that there was, in the hands of the Earl
of Leven, a communication from the Prince by whose authority the
Estates had been convoked. That communication seemed to be entitled to
precedence. The Convention was of the same opinion; and the well weighed
and prudent letter of William was read.
It was then moved that the letter of James should be opened. The
Whigs objected that it might possibly contain a mandate dissolving the
Convention. They therefore proposed that, before the seal was broken,
the Estates should resolve to continue sitting, notwithstanding any such
mandate. The Jacobites, who knew no more than the Whigs what was in the
letter, and were impatient to have it read, eagerly assented. A vote was
passed by which the members bound themselves to consider any order which
should command them to separate as a nullity, and to remain assembled
till they should have accomplished the work of securing the liberty and
religion of Scotland. This vote was signed by almost all the lords and
gentlemen who were present. Seven out of nine bishops subscribed it. The
names of Dundee and Balcarras, written by their own hands, may still
be seen on the original roll. Balcarras afterwards excused what, on
his principles, was, beyond all dispute, a flagrant act of treason,
by saying that he and his friends had, from zeal for their master's
interest, concurred in a declaration of rebellion against their master's
authority; that they had anticipated the most salutary effects from the
letter; and that, if they had not made some concession to the majority,
the letter would not have been opened.
In a few minutes the hopes of Balcarras were grievously disappointed.
The letter from which so much had been hoped and feared was read with
all the honours which Scottish Parliaments were in the habit of paying
to royal communications: but every word carried despair to the hearts
of the Jacobites. It was plain that adversity had taught James neither
wisdom nor mercy. All was obstinacy, cruelty, insolence. A pardon was
promised to those traitors who should return to their allegiance within
a fortnight. Against all others unsparing vengeance was denounced.
Not only was no sorrow expressed for past offences: but the letter
was itself a new offence: for it was written and countersigned by the
apostate Melfort, who was, by the statutes of the realm, incapable of
holding the office of Secretary, and who was not less abhorred by the
Protestant Tories than by the Whigs. The hall was in a tumult. The
enemies of James were loud and vehement. His friends, angry with him,
and ashamed of him, saw that it was vain to think of continuing the
struggle in the Convention. Every vote which had been doubtful when his
letter was unsealed was now irrecoverably lost. The sitting closed in
great agitation, [297]
It was Saturday afternoon. There was to be no other meeting till Monday
morning. The Jacobite leaders held a consultation, and came to the
conclusion that it was necessary to take a decided step. Dundee and
Balcarras must use the powers with which they had been intrusted. The
minority must forthwith leave Edinburgh and assemble at Stirling. Athol
assented, and undertook to bring a great body of his clansmen from the
Highlands to protect the deliberations of the Royalist Convention. Every
thing was arranged for the secession; but, in a few hours, the tardiness
of one man and the haste of another ruined the whole plan.
The Monday came. The Jacobite lords and gentlemen were actually taking
horse for Stirling, when Athol asked for a delay of twenty-four hours.
He had no personal reason to be in haste. By staying he ran no risk
of being assassinated. By going he incurred the risks inseparable from
civil war. The members of his party, unwilling to separate from him,
consented to the postponement which he requested, and repaired once more
to the Parliament House. Dundee alone refused to stay a moment longer.
His life was in danger. The Convention had refused to protect him. He
would not remain to be a mark for the pistols and daggers of murderers.
Balcarras expostulated to no purpose. "By departing alone," he said,
"you will give the alarm and break up the whole scheme." But Dundee was
obstinate. Brave as he undoubtedly was, he seems, like many other brave
men, to have been less proof against the danger of assassination
than against any other form of danger. He knew what the hatred of the
Covenanters was: he knew how well he had earned their hatred; and he was
haunted by that consciousness of inexpiable guilt, and by that dread of
a terrible retribution, which the ancient polytheists personified
under the awful name of the Furies. His old troopers, the Satans and
Beelzebubs who had shared his crimes, and who now shared his perils,
were ready to be the companions of his flight.
Meanwhile the Convention had assembled. Mackenzie was on his legs, and
was pathetically lamenting the hard condition of the Estates, at once
commanded by the guns of a fortress and menaced by a fanatical rabble,
when he was interrupted by some sentinels who came running from the
posts near the Castle. They had seen Dundee at the head of fifty horse
on the Stirling road. That road ran close under the huge rock on which
the citadel is built. Gordon had appeared on the ramparts, and had made
a sign that he had something to say. Dundee had climbed high enough to
hear and to be heard, and was then actually conferring with the Duke.
Up to that moment the hatred with which the Presbyterian members of
the assembly regarded the merciless persecutor of their brethren in
the faith had been restrained by the decorous forms of parliamentary
deliberation. But now the explosion was terrible. Hamilton himself,
who, by the acknowledgment of his opponents, had hitherto performed the
duties of President with gravity and impartiality, was the loudest and
fiercest man in the hall. "It is high time," he cried, "that we [should
find] the enemies of our religion and of our civil freedom are mustering
all around us; and we may well suspect that they have accomplices even
here. Lock the doors. Lay the keys on the table. Let nobody go out but
those lords and gentlemen whom we shall appoint to call the citizens to
arms. There are some good men from the West in Edinburgh, men for whom I
can answer." The assembly raised a general cry of assent. Several
members of the majority boasted that they too had brought with them
trusty retainers who would turn out at a moment's notice against
Claverhouse and his dragoons. All that Hamilton proposed was instantly
done. The Jacobites, silent and unresisting, became prisoners. Leven
went forth and ordered the drums to beat. The Covenanters of Lanarkshire
and Ayrshire promptly obeyed the signal. The force thus assembled had
indeed no very military appearance, but was amply sufficient to overawe
the adherents of the House of Stuart. From Dundee nothing was to be
hoped or feared. He had already scrambled down the Castle hill, rejoined
his troopers, and galloped westward. Hamilton now ordered the doors to
be opened. The suspected members were at liberty to depart. Humbled and
brokenspirited, yet glad that they had come off so well, they stole
forth through the crowd of stern fanatics which filled the High Street.
All thought of secession was at an end, [298]
On the following day it was resolved that the kingdom should be put into
a posture of defence. The preamble of this resolution contained a severe
reflection on the perfidy of the traitor who, within a few hours after
he had, by an engagement subscribed with his own hand, bound himself not
to quit his post in the Convention, had set the example of desertion,
and given the signal of civil war. All Protestants, from sixteen to
sixty, were ordered to hold themselves in readiness to assemble in arms
at the first summons; and, that none might pretend ignorance, it was
directed that the edict should be proclaimed at all the market crosses
throughout the realm, [299]
The Estates then proceeded to send a letter of thanks to William. To
this letter were attached the signatures of many noblemen and gentlemen
who were in the interest of the banished King. The Bishops however
unanimously refused to subscribe their names.
It had long been the custom of the Parliaments of Scotland to entrust
the preparation of Acts to a select number of members who were
designated as the Lords of the Articles. In conformity with this usage,
the business of framing a plan for the settling of the government was
now confided to a Committee of twenty-four. Of the twenty-four eight
were peers, eight representatives of counties, and eight representatives
of towns. The majority of the Committee were Whigs; and not a single
prelate had a seat.
The spirit of the Jacobites, broken by a succession of disasters, was,
about this time, for a moment revived by the arrival of the Duke of
Queensberry from London. His rank was high and his influence was great:
his character, by comparison with the characters of those who surrounded
him, was fair. When Popery was in the ascendent, he had been true to
the cause of the Protestant Church; and, since Whiggism had been in the
ascendent, he had been true to the cause of hereditary monarchy. Some
thought that, if he had been earlier in his place, he might have been
able to render important service to the House of Stuart, [300] Even now
the stimulants which he applied to his torpid and feeble party produced
some faint symptoms of returning animation. Means were found of
communicating with Gordon; and he was earnestly solicited to fire on the
city. The Jacobites hoped that, as soon as the cannon balls had beaten
down a few chimneys, the Estates would adjourn to Glasgow. Time would
thus be gained; and the royalists might be able to execute their old
project of meeting in a separate convention. Gordon however positively
refused to take on himself so grave a responsibility on no better
warrant than the request of a small cabal, [301]
By this time the Estates had a guard on which they could rely more
firmly than on the undisciplined and turbulent Covenanters of the West.
A squadron of English men of war from the Thames had arrived in the
Frith of Forth. On board were the three Scottish regiments which had
accompanied William from Holland. He had, with great judgment, selected
them to protect the assembly which was to settle the government of
their country; and, that no cause of jealousy might be given to a people
exquisitely sensitive on points of national honour, he had purged the
ranks of all Dutch soldiers, and had thus reduced the number of men to
about eleven hundred. This little force was commanded by Andrew Mackay,
a Highlander of noble descent, who had served long on the Continent, and
who was distinguished by courage of the truest temper, and by a piety
such as is seldom found in soldiers of fortune. The Convention passed a
resolution appointing Mackay general of their forces. When the question
was put on this resolution, the Archbishop of Glasgow, unwilling
doubtless to be a party to such an usurpation of powers which belonged
to the King alone, begged that the prelates might be excused from
voting. Divines, he said, had nothing to do with military arrangements.
"The Fathers of the Church," answered a member very keenly, "have been
lately favoured with a new light. I have myself seen military
orders signed by the Most Reverend person who has suddenly become so
scrupulous. There was indeed one difference: those orders were for
dragooning Protestants, and the resolution before us is meant to protect
us from Papists." [302]
The arrival of Mackay's troops, and the determination of Gordon to
remain inactive, quelled the spirit of the Jacobites. They had indeed
one chance left. They might possibly, by joining with those Whigs who
were bent on an union with England, have postponed during a considerable
time the settlement of the government. A negotiation was actually opened
with this view, but was speedily broken off. For it soon appeared that
the party which was for James was really hostile to the union, and that
the party which was for the union was really hostile to James. As these
two parties had no object in common, the only effect of a coalition
between them must have been that one of them would have become the tool
of the other. The question of the union therefore was not raised, [303]
Some Jacobites retired to their country seats: others, though they
remained at Edinburgh, ceased to show themselves in the Parliament
House: many passed over to the winning side; and, when at length
the resolutions prepared by the Twenty Four were submitted to the
Convention, it appeared that the party which on the first day of the
session had rallied round Athol had dwindled away to nothing.
The resolutions had been framed, as far as possible, in conformity
with the example recently set at Westminster. In one important point,
however, it was absolutely necessary that the copy should deviate from
the original. The Estates of England had brought two charges against
James, his misgovernment and his flight, and had, by using the soft
word "Abdication," evaded, with some sacrifice of verbal precision,
the question whether subjects may lawfully depose a bad prince. That
question the Estates of Scotland could not evade. They could not pretend
that James had deserted his post. For he had never, since he came to
the throne, resided in Scotland. During many years that kingdom had been
ruled by sovereigns who dwelt in another land. The whole machinery of
the administration had been constructed on the supposition that the
King would be absent, and was therefore not necessarily deranged by that
flight which had, in the south of the island, dissolved all government,
and suspended the ordinary course of justice. It was only by letter that
the King could, when he was at Whitehall, communicate with the Council
and the Parliament at Edinburgh; and by letter he could communicate with
them when he was at Saint Germains or at Dublin. The Twenty Four were
therefore forced to propose to the Estates a resolution distinctly
declaring that James the Seventh had by his misconduct forfeited the
crown. Many writers have inferred from the language of this resolution
that sound political principles had made a greater progress in Scotland
than in England. But the whole history of the two countries from the
Restoration to the Union proves this inference to be erroneous. The
Scottish Estates used plain language, simply because it was impossible
for them, situated as they were, to use evasive language.
The person who bore the chief part in framing the resolution, and in
defending it, was Sir John Dalrymple, who had recently held the high
office of Lord Advocate, and had been an accomplice in some of the
misdeeds which he now arraigned with great force of reasoning and
eloquence. He was strenuously supported by Sir James Montgomery, member
for Ayrshire, a man of considerable abilities, but of loose principles,
turbulent temper, insatiable cupidity, and implacable malevolence. The
Archbishop of Glasgow and Sir George Mackenzie spoke on the other side:
but the only effect of their oratory was to deprive their party of the
advantage of being able to allege that the Estates were under duress,
and that liberty of speech had been denied to the defenders of
hereditary monarchy.
When the question was put, Athol, Queensberry, and some of their
friends withdrew. Only five members voted against the resolution which
pronounced that James had forfeited his right to the allegiance of his
subjects. When it was moved that the Crown of Scotland should be
settled as the Crown of England had been settled, Athol and Queensberry
reappeared in the hall. They had doubted, they said, whether they could
justifiably declare the throne vacant. But, since it had been declared
vacant, they felt no doubt that William and Mary were the persons who
ought to fill it.
The Convention then went forth in procession to the High Street. Several
great nobles, attended by the Lord Provost of the capital and by the
heralds, ascended the octagon tower from which rose the city cross
surmounted by the unicorn of Scotland, [304] Hamilton read the vote of
the Convention; and a King at Arms proclaimed the new Sovereigns with
sound of trumpet. On the same day the Estates issued an order that the
parochial clergy should, on pain of deprivation, publish from their
pulpits the proclamation which had just been read at the city cross, and
should pray for King William and Queen Mary.
Still the interregnum was not at an end. Though the new Sovereigns had
been proclaimed, they had not yet been put into possession of the royal
authority by a formal tender and a formal acceptance. At Edinburgh,
as at Westminster, it was thought necessary that the instrument which
settled the government should clearly define and solemnly assert those
privileges of the people which the Stuarts had illegally infringed. A
Claim of Right was therefore drawn up by the Twenty Four, and adopted by
the Convention. To this Claim, which purported to be merely declaratory
of the law as it stood, was added a supplementary paper containing a
list of grievances which could be remedied only by new laws. One most
important article which we should naturally expect to find at the head
of such a list, the Convention, with great practical prudence, but in
defiance of notorious facts and of unanswerable arguments, placed in the
Claim of Right. Nobody could deny that prelacy was established by Act
of Parliament. The power exercised by the Bishops might be pernicious,
unscriptural, antichristian but illegal it certainly was not; and to
pronounce it illegal was to outrage common sense. The Whig leaders
however were much more desirous to get rid of episcopacy than to
prove themselves consummate publicists and logicians. If they made the
abolition of episcopacy an article of the contract by which William was
to hold the crown, they attained their end, though doubtless in a manner
open to much criticism. If, on the other hand, they contented themselves
with resolving that episcopacy was a noxious institution which at some
future time the legislature would do well to abolish, they might find
that their resolution, though unobjectionable in form, was barren of
consequences. They knew that William by no means sympathized with their
dislike of Bishops, and that, even had he been much more zealous for
the Calvinistic model than he was, the relation in which he stood to the
Anglican Church would make it difficult and dangerous for him to declare
himself hostile to a fundamental part of the constitution of that
Church. If he should become King of Scotland without being fettered by
any pledge on this subject, it might well be apprehended that he would
hesitate about passing an Act which would be regarded with abhorrence
by a large body of his subjects in the south of the island. It was
therefore most desirable that the question should be settled while the
throne was still vacant. In this opinion many politicians concurred, who
had no dislike to rochets and mitres, but who wished that William might
have a quiet and prosperous reign. The Scottish people,--so these men
reasoned,--hated episcopacy. The English loved it. To leave William
any voice in the matter was to put him under the necessity of deeply
wounding the strongest feelings of one of the nations which he governed.
It was therefore plainly for his own interest that the question, which
he could not settle in any manner without incurring a fearful amount of
obloquy, should be settled for him by others who were exposed to no
such danger. He was not yet Sovereign of Scotland. While the interregnum
lasted, the supreme power belonged to the Estates; and for what the
Estates might do the prelatists of his southern kingdom could not hold
him responsible. The elder Dalrymple wrote strongly from London to this
effect, and there can be little doubt that he expressed the sentiments
of his master. William would have sincerely rejoiced if the Scots could
have been reconciled to a modified episcopacy. But, since that could not
be, it was manifestly desirable that they should themselves, while
there was yet no King over them, pronounce the irrevocable doom of the
institution which they abhorred, [305]
The Convention, therefore, with little debate as it should seem,
inserted in the Claim of Right a clause declaring that prelacy was an
insupportable burden to the kingdom, that it had been long odious to the
body of the people, and that it ought to be abolished.
Nothing in the proceedings at Edinburgh astonishes an Englishman more
than the manner in which the Estates dealt with the practice of torture.
In England torture had always been illegal. In the most servile times
the judges had unanimously pronounced it so. Those rulers who had
occasionally resorted to it had, as far as was possible, used it in
secret, had never pretended that they had acted in conformity with
either statute law or common law, and had excused themselves by saying
that the extraordinary peril to which the state was exposed had
forced them to take on themselves the responsibility of employing
extraordinarily means of defence. It had therefore never been thought
necessary by any English Parliament to pass any Act or resolution
touching this matter. The torture was not mentioned in the Petition
of Right, or in any of the statutes framed by the Long Parliament.
No member of the Convention of 1689 dreamed of proposing that the
instrument which called the Prince and Princess of Orange to the throne
should contain a declaration against the using of racks and thumbscrews
for the purpose of forcing prisoners to accuse themselves. Such a
declaration would have been justly regarded as weakening rather than
strengthening a rule which, as far back as the days of the Plantagenets,
had been proudly declared by the most illustrious sages of Westminster
Hall to be a distinguishing feature of the English jurisprudence, [306]
In the Scottish Claim of Right, the use of torture, without evidence,
or in ordinary cases, was declared to be contrary to law. The use of
torture, therefore, where there was strong evidence, and where the crime
was extraordinary, was, by the plainest implication, declared to be
according to law; nor did the Estates mention the use of torture among
the grievances which required a legislative remedy. In truth, they could
not condemn the use of torture without condemning themselves. It had
chanced that, while they were employed in settling the government, the
eloquent and learned Lord President Lockhart had been foully murdered in
a public street through which he was returning from church on a Sunday.
The murderer was seized, and proved to be a wretch who, having treated
his wife barbarously and turned her out of doors, had been compelled by
a decree of the Court of Session to provide for her. A savage hatred of
the judges by whom she had been protected had taken possession of his
mind, and had goaded him to a horrible crime and a horrible fate. It
was natural that an assassination attended by so many circumstances
of aggravation should move the indignation of the members of the
Convention. Yet they should have considered the gravity of the
conjuncture and the importance of their own mission. They unfortunately,
in the heat of passion, directed the magistrates of Edinburgh to strike
the prisoner in the boots, and named a Committee to superintend the
operation. But for this unhappy event, it is probable that the law of
Scotland concerning torture would have been immediately assimilated to
the law of England, [307]
Having settled the Claim of Right, the Convention proceeded to revise
the Coronation oath. When this had been done, three members were
appointed to carry the Instrument of Government to London. Argyle,
though not, in strictness of law, a Peer, was chosen to represent the
Peers: Sir James Montgomery represented the Commissioners of Shires, and
Sir John Dalrymple the Commissioners of Towns.
The Estates then adjourned for a few weeks, having first passed a vote
which empowered Hamilton to take such measures as might be necessary for
the preservation of the public peace till the end of the interregnum.
The ceremony of the inauguration was distinguished from ordinary
pageants by some highly interesting circumstances. On the eleventh of
May the three Commissioners came to the Council Chamber at Whitehall,
and thence, attended by almost all the Scotchmen of note who were then
in London, proceeded to the Banqueting House. There William and Mary
appeared seated under a canopy. A splendid circle of English nobles, and
statesmen stood round the throne: but the sword of state as committed to
a Scotch lord; and the oath of office was administered after the Scotch
fashion. Argyle recited the words slowly. The royal pair, holding up
their hands towards heaven, repeated after him till they came to the
last clause. There William paused. That clause contained a promise that
he would root out all heretics and all enemies of the true worship of
God; and it was notorious that, in the opinion of many Scotchmen,
not only all Roman Catholics, but all Protestant Episcopalians, all
Independents, Baptists and Quakers, all Lutherans, nay all British
Presbyterians who did not hold themselves bound by the Solemn League and
Covenant, were enemies of the true worship of God, [308] The King had
apprised the Commissioners that he could not take this part of the oath
without a distinct and public explanation; and they had been authorised
by the Convention to give such an explanation as would satisfy him.
"I will not," he now said, "lay myself under any obligation to be
a persecutor." "Neither the words of this oath," said one of the
Commissioners, "nor the laws of Scotland, lay any such obligation on
your Majesty." "In that sense, then, I swear," said William; "and I
desire you all, my lords and gentlemen, to witness that I do so." Even
his detractors have generally admitted that on this great occasion he
acted with uprightness, dignity, and wisdom, [309]
As King of Scotland, he soon found himself embarrassed at every step by
all the difficulties which had embarrassed him as King of England, and
by other difficulties which in England were happily unknown. In the
north of the island, no class was more dissatisfied with the Revolution
than the class which owed most to the Revolution. The manner in which
the Convention had decided the question of ecclesiastical polity had
not been more offensive to the Bishops themselves than to those fiery
Covenanters who had long, in defiance of sword and carbine, boot and
gibbet, worshipped their Maker after their own fashion in caverns and on
mountain tops. Was there ever, these zealots exclaimed, such a halting
between two opinions, such a compromise between the Lord and Baal? The
Estates ought to have said that episcopacy was an abomination in
God's sight, and that, in obedience to his word, and from fear of
his righteous judgment, they were determined to deal with this great
national sin and scandal after the fashion of those saintly rulers who
of old cut down the groves and demolished the altars of Chemosh and
Astarte. Unhappily, Scotland was ruled, not by pious Josiahs, but by
careless Gallios. The antichristian hierarchy was to be abolished, not
because it was an insult to heaven, but because it was felt as a burden
on earth; not because it was hateful to the great Head of the Church,
but because it was hateful to the people. Was public opinion, then, the
test of right and wrong in religion? Was not the order which Christ had
established in his own house to be held equally sacred in all countries
and through all ages? And was there no reason for following that order
in Scotland except a reason which might be urged with equal force for
maintaining Prelacy in England, Popery in Spain, and Mahometanism in
Turkey? Why, too, was nothing said of those Covenants which the nation
had so generally subscribed and so generally violated? Why was it not
distinctly affirmed that the promises set down in those rolls were still
binding, and would to the end of time be binding, on the kingdom? Were
these truths to be suppressed from regard for the feelings and interests
of a prince who was all things to all men, an ally of the idolatrous
Spaniard and of the Lutheran bane, a presbyterian at the Hague and a
prelatist at Whiteball? He, like Jelin in ancient times, had doubtless
so far done well that he had been the scourge of the idolatrous House of
Ahab. But he, like Jelin, had not taken heed to walk in the divine
law with his whole heart, but had tolerated and practised impieties
differing only in degree from those of which he had declared himself the
enemy. It would have better become godly senators to remonstrate with
him on the sin which he was committing by conforming to the Anglican
ritual, and by maintaining the Anglican Church government, than to
flatter him by using a phraseology which seemed to indicate that they
were as deeply tainted with Erastianism as himself. Many of those who
held this language refused to do any act which could be construed into a
recognition of the new Sovereigns, and would rather have been fired upon
by files of musketeers or tied to stakes within low water mark than have
uttered a prayer that God would bless William and Mary.
Yet the King had less to fear from the pertinacious adherence of these
men to their absurd principles, than from the ambition and avarice of
another set of men who had no principles at all. It was necessary
that he should immediately name ministers to conduct the government of
Scotland: and, name whom he might, he could not fail to disappoint
and irritate a multitude of expectants. Scotland was one of the least
wealthy countries in Europe: yet no country in Europe contained a
greater number of clever and selfish politicians. The places in the
gift of the Crown were not enough to satisfy one twentieth part of the
placehunters, every one of whom thought that his own services had
been preeminent, and that, whoever might be passed by, he ought to
be remembered. William did his best to satisfy these innumerable and
insatiable claimants by putting many offices into commission. There were
however a few great posts which it was impossible to divide. Hamilton
was declared Lord High Commissioner, in the hope that immense pecuniary
allowances, a residence in Holyrood Palace, and a pomp and dignity
little less than regal, would content him. The Earl of Crawford was
appointed President of the Parliament; and it was supposed that this
appointment would conciliate the rigid Presbyterians, for Crawford was
what they called a professor. His letters and speeches are, to use his
own phraseology, exceeding savoury. Alone, or almost alone, among the
prominent politicians of that time, he retained the style which had
been fashionable in the preceding generation. He had a text of the
Old Testament ready for every occasion. He filled his despatches with
allusions to Ishmael and Hagar, Hannah and Eli, Elijah, Nehemiah,
and Zerubbabel, and adorned his oratory with quotations from Ezra and
Haggai. It is a circumstance strikingly characteristic of the man, and
of the school in which he had been trained, that, in all the mass of his
writing which has come down to us, there is not a single word indicating
that he had ever in his life heard of the New Testament. Even in our own
time some persons of a peculiar taste have been so much delighted by the
rich unction of his eloquence, that they have confidently pronounced
him a saint. To those whose habit it is to judge of a man rather by his
actions than by his words, Crawford will appear to have been a selfish,
cruel politician, who was not at all the dupe of his own cant, and whose
zeal against episcopal government was not a little whetted by his desire
to obtain a grant of episcopal domains. In excuse for his greediness, it
ought to be said that he was the poorest noble of a poor nobility, and
that before the Revolution he was sometimes at a loss for a meal and a
suit of clothes, [310]
The ablest of Scottish politicians and debaters, Sir John Dalrymple, was
appointed Lord Advocate. His father, Sir James, the greatest of Scottish
jurists, was placed at the head of the Court of Session. Sir William
Lockhart, a man whose letters prove him to have possessed considerable
ability, became Solicitor General.
Sir James Montgomery had flattered himself that he should be the chief
minister. He had distinguished himself highly in the Convention. He
had been one of the Commissioners who had tendered the Crown and
administered the oath to the new Sovereigns. In parliamentary ability
and eloquence he had no superior among his countrymen, except the new
Lord Advocate. The Secretaryship was, not indeed in dignity, but in real
power, the highest office in the Scottish government; and this office
was the reward to which Montgomery thought himself entitled. But the
Episcopalians and the moderate Presbyterians dreaded him as a man
of extreme opinions and of bitter spirit. He had been a chief of
the Covenanters: he had been prosecuted at one time for holding
conventicles, and at another time for harbouring rebels: he had been
fined: he had been imprisoned: he had been almost driven to take refuge
from his enemies beyond the Atlantic in the infant settlement of New
Jersey. It was apprehended that, if he were now armed with the whole
power of the Crown, he would exact a terrible retribution for what he
had suffered, [311] William therefore preferred Melville, who, though
not a man of eminent talents, was regarded by the Presbyterians as a
thoroughgoing friend, and yet not regarded by the Episcopalians as an
implacable enemy. Melville fixed his residence at the English Court,
and became the regular organ of communication between Kensington and the
authorities at Edinburgh.
William had, however, one Scottish adviser who deserved and possessed
more influence than any of the ostensible ministers. This was Carstairs,
one of the most remarkable men of that age. He united great scholastic
attainments with great aptitude for civil business, and the firm faith
and ardent zeal of a martyr with the shrewdness and suppleness of a
consummate politician. In courage and fidelity he resembled Burnet; but
he had, what Burnet wanted, judgment, selfcommand, and a singular power
of keeping secrets. There was no post to which he might not have aspired
if he had been a layman, or a priest of the Church of England. But a
Presbyterian clergyman could not hope to attain any high dignity either
in the north or in the south of the island. Carstairs was forced to
content himself with the substance of power, and to leave the semblance
to others. He was named Chaplain to their Majesties for Scotland, but
wherever the King was, in England, in Ireland, in the Netherlands, there
was this most trusty and most prudent of courtiers. He obtained from
the royal bounty a modest competence; and he desired no more. But it
was well known that he could be as useful a friend and as formidable an
enemy as any member of the cabinet; and he was designated at the
public offices and in the antechambers of the palace by the significant
nickname of the Cardinal, [312]
To Montgomery was offered the place of Lord Justice Clerk. But that
place, though high and honourable, he thought below his merits and his
capacity; and he returned from London to Scotland with a heart ulcerated
by hatred of his ungrateful master and of his successful rivals. At
Edinburgh a knot of Whigs, as severely disappointed as himself by the
new arrangements, readily submitted to the guidance of so bold and
able a leader. Under his direction these men, among whom the Earl of
Annandale and Lord Ross were the most conspicuous, formed themselves
into a society called the Club, appointed a clerk, and met daily at a
tavern to concert plans of opposition. Round this nucleus soon gathered
a great body of greedy and angry politicians, [313] With these dishonest
malecontents, whose object was merely to annoy the government and to get
places, were leagued other malecontents, who, in the course of a long
resistance to tyranny, had become so perverse and irritable that
they were unable to live contentedly even under the mildest and most
constitutional government. Such a man was Sir Patrick Hume. He had
returned from exile, as litigious, as impracticable; as morbidly jealous
of all superior authority, and as fond of haranguing, as he had been
four years before, and was as much bent on making a merely nominal
sovereign of William as he had formerly been bent on making a merely
nominal general of Argyle, [314] A man far superior morally and
intellectually to Hume, Fletcher of Saltoun, belonged to the same party.
Though not a member of the Convention, he was a most active member of
the Club, [315] He hated monarchy: he hated democracy: his favourite
project was to make Scotland an oligarchical republic. The King, if
there must be a King, was to be a mere pageant. The lowest class of the
people were to be bondsmen. The whole power, legislative and executive,
was to be in the hands of the Parliament. In other words, the country
was to be absolutely governed by a hereditary aristocracy, the most
needy, the most haughty, and the most quarrelsome in Europe. Under such
a polity there could have been neither freedom nor tranquillity. Trade,
industry, science, would have languished; and Scotland would have been
a smaller Poland, with a puppet sovereign, a turbulent diet, and an
enslaved people. With unsuccessful candidates for office, and with
honest but wrongheaded republicans, were mingled politicians whose
course was determined merely by fear. Many sycophants, who were
conscious that they had, in the evil time, done what deserved
punishment, were desirous to make their peace with the powerful and
vindictive Club, and were glad to be permitted to atone for their
servility to James by their opposition to William. [316] The great body
of Jacobites meanwhile stood aloof, saw with delight the enemies of the
House of Stuart divided against one another, and indulged the hope that
the confusion would end in the restoration of the banished king, [317]
While Montgomery was labouring to form out of various materials a party
which might, when the Convention should reassemble, be powerful enough
to dictate to the throne, an enemy still more formidable than Montgomery
had set up the standard of civil war in a region about which the
politicians of Westminster, and indeed most of the politicians of
Edinburgh, knew no more than about Abyssinia or Japan.
It is not easy for a modern Englishman, who can pass in a day from his
club in St. James's Street to his shooting box among the Grampians, and
who finds in his shooting box all the comforts and luxuries of his
club, to believe that, in the time of his greatgrandfathers, St. James's
Street had as little connection with the Grampians as with the Andes.
Yet so it was. In the south of our island scarcely any thing was known
about the Celtic part of Scotland; and what was known excited no feeling
but contempt and loathing. The crags and the glens, the woods and the
waters, were indeed the same that now swarm every autumn with admiring
gazers and stretchers. The Trosachs wound as now between gigantic walls
of rock tapestried with broom and wild roses: Foyers came headlong down
through the birchwood with the same leap and the same roar with which
he still rushes to Loch Ness; and, in defiance of the sun of June, the
snowy scalp of Ben Cruachan rose, as it still rises, over the willowy
islets of Loch Awe. Yet none of these sights had power, till a recent
period, to attract a single poet or painter from more opulent and more
tranquil regions. Indeed, law and police, trade and industry, have done
far more than people of romantic dispositions will readily admit,
to develope in our minds a sense of the wilder beauties of nature.
A traveller must be freed from all apprehension of being murdered or
starved before he can be charmed by the bold outlines and rich tints
of the hills. He is not likely to be thrown into ecstasies by the
abruptness of a precipice from which he is in imminent danger of falling
two thousand feet perpendicular; by the boiling waves of a torrent which
suddenly whirls away his baggage and forces him to run for his life; by
the gloomy grandeur of a pass where he finds a corpse which marauders
have just stripped and mangled; or by the screams of those eagles whose
next meal may probably be on his own eyes. About the year 1730, Captain
Burt, one of the first Englishmen who caught a glimpse of the spots
which now allure tourists from every part of the civilised world, wrote
an account of his wanderings. He was evidently a man of a quick, an
observant, and a cultivated mind, and would doubtless, had he lived in
our age, have looked with mingled awe and delight on the mountains of
Invernessshire. But, writing with the feeling which was universal in
his own age, he pronounced those mountains monstrous excrescences. Their
deformity, he said, was such that the most sterile plains seemed lovely
by comparison. Fine weather, he complained, only made bad worse; for,
the clearer the day, the more disagreeably did those misshapen masses
of gloomy brown and dirty purple affect the eye. What a contrast, he
exclaimed, between these horrible prospects and the beauties of Richmond
Hill! [318] Some persons may think that Burt was a man of vulgar and
prosaical mind: but they will scarcely venture to pass a similar
judgment on Oliver Goldsmith. Goldsmith was one of the very few Saxons
who, more than a century ago, ventured to explore the Highlands. He
was disgusted by the hideous wilderness, and declared that he greatly
preferred the charming country round Leyden, the vast expanse of verdant
meadow, and the villas with their statues and grottoes, trim flower
beds, and rectilinear avenues. Yet it is difficult to believe that
the author of the Traveller and of the Deserted Village was naturally
inferior in taste and sensibility to the thousands of clerks and
milliners who are now thrown into raptures by the sight of Loch Katrine
and Loch Lomond, [319] His feelings may easily be explained. It was not
till roads had been cut out of the rocks, till bridges had been flung
over the courses of the rivulets, till inns had succeeded to dens of
robbers, till there was as little danger of being slain or plundered
in the wildest defile of Badenoch or Lochaber as in Cornhill, that
strangers could be enchanted by the blue dimples of the lakes and by
the rainbows which overhung the waterfalls, and could derive a solemn
pleasure even from the clouds and tempests which lowered on the mountain
tops.
The change in the feeling with which the Lowlanders regarded the
highland scenery was closely connected with a change not less remarkable
in the feeling with which they regarded the Highland race. It is not
strange that the Wild Scotch, as they were sometimes called, should,
in the seventeenth century, have been considered by the Saxons as mere
savages. But it is surely strange that, considered as savages, they
should not have been objects of interest and curiosity. The English were
then abundantly inquisitive about the manners of rude nations separated
from our island by great continents and oceans. Numerous books were
printed describing the laws, the superstitions, the cabins, the repasts,
the dresses, the marriages, the funerals of Laplanders and Hottentots,
Mohawks and Malays. The plays and poems of that age are full of
allusions to the usages of the black men of Africa and of the red men
of America. The only barbarian about whom there was no wish to have any
information was the Highlander. Five or six years after the Revolution,
an indefatigable angler published an account of Scotland. He boasted
that, in the course of his rambles from lake to lake, and from brook to
brook, he had left scarcely a nook of the kingdom unexplored. But, when
we examine his narrative, we find that he had never ventured beyond
the extreme skirts of the Celtic region. He tells us that even from the
people who lived close to the passes he could learn little or nothing
about the Gaelic population. Few Englishmen, he says, had ever seen
Inverary. All beyond Inverary was chaos, [320] In the reign of George
the First, a work was published which professed to give a most exact
account of Scotland; and in this work, consisting of more than three
hundred pages, two contemptuous paragraphs were thought sufficient for
the Highlands and the Highlanders, [321] We may well doubt whether, in
1689, one in twenty of the well read gentlemen who assembled at Will's
coffeehouse knew that, within the four seas, and at the distance of less
than five hundred miles from London, were many miniature courts, in
each of which a petty prince, attended by guards, by armour bearers, by
musicians, by a hereditary orator, by a hereditary poet laureate, kept
a rude state, dispensed a rude justice, waged wars, and concluded
treaties. While the old Gaelic institutions were in full vigour, no
account of them was given by any observer, qualified to judge of them
fairly. Had such an observer studied the character of the Highlanders,
he would doubtless have found in it closely intermingled the good and
the bad qualities of an uncivilised nation. He would have found that the
people had no love for their country or for their king; that they had
no attachment to any commonwealth larger than the clan, or to any
magistrate superior to the chief. He would have found that life was
governed by a code of morality and honour widely different from that
which is established in peaceful and prosperous societies. He would have
learned that a stab in the back, or a shot from behind a fragment of
rock, were approved modes of taking satisfaction for insults. He would
have heard men relate boastfully how they or their fathers had wreaked
on hereditary enemies in a neighbouring valley such vengeance as would
have made old soldiers of the Thirty Years' War shudder. He would have
found that robbery was held to be a calling, not merely innocent, but
honourable. He would have seen, wherever he turned, that dislike of
steady industry, and that disposition to throw on the weaker sex the
heaviest part of manual labour, which are characteristic of savages. He
would have been struck by the spectacle of athletic men basking in
the sun, angling for salmon, or taking aim at grouse, while their aged
mothers, their pregnant wives, their tender daughters, were reaping the
scanty harvest of oats. Nor did the women repine at their hard lot. In
their view it was quite fit that a man, especially if he assumed the
aristocratic title of Duinhe Wassel and adorned his bonnet with the
eagle's feather, should take his ease, except when he was fighting,
hunting, or marauding. To mention the name of such a man in connection
with commerce or with any mechanical art was an insult. Agriculture was
indeed less despised. Yet a highborn warrior was much more becomingly
employed in plundering the land of others than in tilling his own. The
religion of the greater part of the Highlands was a rude mixture of
Popery and Paganism. The symbol of redemption was associated with
heathen sacrifices and incantations. Baptized men poured libations of
ale to one Daemon, and set out drink offerings of milk for another.
Seers wrapped themselves up in bulls' hides, and awaited, in that
vesture, the inspiration which was to reveal the future. Even among
those minstrels and genealogists whose hereditary vocation was to
preserve the memory of past events, an enquirer would have found very
few who could read. In truth, he might easily have journeyed from sea to
sea without discovering a page of Gaelic printed or written. The price
which he would have had to pay for his knowledge of the country would
have been heavy. He would have had to endure hardships as great as if
he had sojourned among the Esquimaux or the Samoyeds. Here and
there, indeed, at the castle of some great lord who had a seat in the
Parliament and Privy Council, and who was accustomed to pass a large
part of his life in the cities of the South, might have been found wigs
and embroidered coats, plate and fine linen, lace and jewels, French
dishes and French wines. But, in general, the traveller would have
been forced to content himself with very different quarters. In many
dwellings the furniture, the food, the clothing, nay the very hair
and skin of his hosts, would have put his philosophy to the proof. His
lodging would sometimes have been in a but of which every nook would
have swarmed with vermin. He would have inhaled an atmosphere thick with
peat smoke, and foul with a hundred noisome exhalations. At supper grain
fit only for horses would have been set before him, accompanied by a
cake of blood drawn from living cows. Some of the company with which he
would have feasted would have been covered with cutaneous eruptions, and
others would have been smeared with tar like sheep. His couch would have
been the bare earth, dry or wet as the weather might be; and from that
couch he would have risen half poisoned with stench, half blind with the
reek of turf, and half mad with the itch, [322]
This is not an attractive picture. And yet an enlightened and
dispassionate observer would have found in the character and manners of
this rude people something which might well excite admiration and a good
hope. Their courage was what great exploits achieved in all the
four quarters of the globe have since proved it to be. Their intense
attachment to their own tribe and to their own patriarch, though
politically a great evil, partook of the nature of virtue. The sentiment
was misdirected and ill regulated; but still it was heroic. There must
be some elevation of soul in a man who loves the society of which he is
a member and the leader whom he follows with a love stronger than the
love of life. It was true that the Highlander had few scruples about
shedding the blood of an enemy: but it was not less true that he had
high notions of the duty of observing faith to allies and hospitality
to guests. It was true that his predatory habits were most pernicious to
the commonwealth. Yet those erred greatly who imagined that he bore any
resemblance to villains who, in rich and well governed communities, live
by stealing. When he drove before him the herds of Lowland farmers up
the pass which led to his native glen, he no more considered himself as
a thief than the Raleighs and Drakes considered themselves as thieves
when they divided the cargoes of Spanish galleons. He was a warrior
seizing lawful prize of war, of war never once intermitted during
the thirty-five generations which had passed away since the Teutonic
invaders had driven the children of the soil to the mountains. That, if
he was caught robbing on such principles, he should, for the protection
of peaceful industry, be punished with the utmost rigour of the law
was perfectly just. But it was not just to class him morally with the
pickpockets who infested Drury Lane Theatre, or the highwaymen who
stopped coaches on Blackheath. His inordinate pride of birth and his
contempt for labour and trade were indeed great weaknesses, and had done
far more than the inclemency of the air and the sterility of the soil
to keep his country poor and rude. Yet even here there was some
compensation. It must in fairness be acknowledged that the patrician
virtues were not less widely diffused among the population of the
Highlands than the patrician vices. As there was no other part of the
island where men, sordidly clothed, lodged, and fed, indulged themselves
to such a degree in the idle sauntering habits of an aristocracy, so
there was no other part of the island where such men had in such a
degree the better qualities of an aristocracy, grace and dignity of
manner, selfrespect, and that noble sensibility which makes dishonour
more terrible than death. A gentleman of this sort, whose clothes were
begrimed with the accumulated filth of years, and whose hovel smelt
worse than an English hogstye, would often do the honours of that hovel
with a lofty courtesy worthy of the splendid circle of Versailles.
Though he had as little booklearning as the most stupid ploughboys
of England, it would have been a great error to put him in the same
intellectual rank with such ploughboys. It is indeed only by reading
that men can become profoundly acquainted with any science. But the arts
of poetry and rhetoric may be carried near to absolute perfection, and
may exercise a mighty influence on the public mind, in an age in which
books are wholly or almost wholly unknown. The first great painter
of life and manners has described, with a vivacity which makes it
impossible to doubt that he was copying from nature, the effect produced
by eloquence and song on audiences ignorant of the alphabet. It is
probable that, in the Highland councils, men who would not have been
qualified for the duty of parish clerks sometimes argued questions of
peace and war, of tribute and homage, with ability worthy of Halifax and
Caermarthen, and that, at the Highland banquets, minstrels who did
not know their letters sometimes poured forth rhapsodies in which a
discerning critic might have found passages which would have reminded
him of the tenderness of Otway or of the vigour of Dryden.
There was therefore even then evidence sufficient to justify the belief
that no natural inferiority had kept the Celt far behind the Saxon.
It might safely have been predicted that, if ever an efficient police
should make it impossible for the Highlander to avenge his wrongs by
violence and to supply his wants by rapine, if ever his faculties should
be developed by the civilising influence of the Protestant religion and
of the English language, if ever he should transfer to his country and
to her lawful magistrates the affection and respect with which he had
been taught to regard his own petty community and his own petty prince,
the kingdom would obtain an immense accession of strength for all the
purposes both of peace and of war.
Such would doubtless have been the decision of a well informed and
impartial judge. But no such judge was then to be found. The Saxons
who dwelt far from the Gaelic provinces could not be well informed. The
Saxons who dwelt near those provinces could not be impartial. National
enmities have always been fiercest among borderers; and the enmity
between the Highland borderer and the Lowland borderer along the
whole frontier was the growth of ages, and was kept fresh by constant
injuries. One day many square miles of pasture land were swept bare by
armed plunderers from the hills. Another day a score of plaids dangled
in a row on the gallows of Crieff or Stirling. Fairs were indeed held on
the debatable land for the necessary interchange of commodities. But
to those fairs both parties came prepared for battle; and the day often
ended in bloodshed. Thus the Highlander was an object of hatred to his
Saxon neighbours; and from his Saxon neighbours those Saxons who dwelt
far from him learned the very little that they cared to know about his
habits. When the English condescended to think of him at all,--and it
was seldom that they did so,--they considered him as a filthy abject
savage, a slave, a Papist, a cutthroat, and a thief, [323]
This contemptuous loathing lasted till the year 1745, and was then for a
moment succeeded by intense fear and rage. England, thoroughly alarmed,
put forth her whole strength. The Highlands were subjugated rapidly,
completely, and for ever. During a short time the English nation, still
heated by the recent conflict, breathed nothing but vengeance. The
slaughter on the field of battle and on the scaffold was not sufficient
to slake the public thirst for blood. The sight of the tartan inflamed
the populace of London with hatred, which showed itself by unmanly
outrages to defenceless captives. A political and social revolution
took place through the whole Celtic region. The power of the chiefs was
destroyed: the people were disarmed: the use of the old national garb
was interdicted: the old predatory habits were effectually broken; and
scarcely had this change been accomplished when a strange reflux of
public feeling began. Pity succeeded to aversion. The nation execrated
the cruelties which had been committed on the Highlanders, and forgot
that for those cruelties it was itself answerable. Those very Londoners,
who, while the memory of the march to Derby was still fresh, had
thronged to hoot and pelt the rebel prisoners, now fastened on the
prince who had put down the rebellion the nickname of Butcher. Those
barbarous institutions and usages, which, while they were in full force,
no Saxon had thought worthy of serious examination, or had mentioned
except with contempt, had no sooner ceased to exist than they became
objects of curiosity, of interest, even of admiration. Scarcely had the
chiefs been turned into mere landlords, when it became the fashion to
draw invidious comparisons between the rapacity of the landlord and the
indulgence of the chief. Men seemed to have forgotten that the ancient
Gaelic polity had been found to be incompatible with the authority of
law, had obstructed the progress of civilisation, had more than once
brought on the empire the curse of civil war. As they had formerly
seen only the odious side of that polity, they could now see only the
pleasing side. The old tie, they said, had been parental: the new tie
was purely commercial. What could be more lamentable than that the head
of a tribe should eject, for a paltry arrear of rent, tenants who were
his own flesh and blood, tenants whose forefathers had often with their
bodies covered his forefathers on the field of battle? As long as there
were Gaelic marauders, they had been regarded by the Saxon population
as hateful vermin who ought to be exterminated without mercy. As soon as
the extermination had been accomplished, as soon as cattle were as safe
in the Perthshire passes as in Smithfield market, the freebooter was
exalted into a hero of romance. As long as the Gaelic dress was worn,
the Saxons had pronounced it hideous, ridiculous, nay, grossly indecent.
Soon after it had been prohibited, they discovered that it was the most
graceful drapery in Europe. The Gaelic monuments, the Gaelic usages, the
Gaelic superstitions, the Gaelic verses, disdainfully neglected during
many ages, began to attract the attention of the learned from the moment
at which the peculiarities of the Gaelic race began to disappear. So
strong was this impulse that, where the Highlands were concerned, men of
sense gave ready credence to stories without evidence, and men of taste
gave rapturous applause to compositions without merit. Epic poems, which
any skilful and dispassionate critic would at a glance have perceived
to be almost entirely modern, and which, if they had been published as
modern, would have instantly found their proper place in company with
Blackmore's Alfred and Wilkie's Epigoniad, were pronounced to be fifteen
hundred years old, and were gravely classed with the Iliad. Writers of
a very different order from the impostor who fabricated these forgeries
saw how striking an effect might be produced by skilful pictures of the
old Highland life. Whatever was repulsive was softened down: whatever
was graceful and noble was brought prominently forward. Some of these
works were executed with such admirable art that, like the historical
plays of Shakspeare, they superseded history. The visions of the poet
were realities to his readers. The places which he described became
holy ground, and were visited by thousands of pilgrims. Soon the
vulgar imagination was so completely occupied by plaids, targets, and
claymores, that, by most Englishmen, Scotchman and Highlander were
regarded as synonymous words. Few people seemed to be aware that, at no
remote period, a Macdonald or a Macgregor in his tartan was to a citizen
of Edinburgh or Glasgow what an Indian hunter in his war paint is to
an inhabitant of Philadelphia or Boston. Artists and actors represented
Bruce and Douglas in striped petticoats. They might as well have
represented Washington brandishing a tomahawk, and girt with a string of
scalps. At length this fashion reached a point beyond which it was not
easy to proceed. The last British King who held a court in Holyrood
thought that he could not give a more striking proof of his respect for
the usages which had prevailed in Scotland before the Union, than by
disguising himself in what, before the Union, was considered by nine
Scotchmen out of ten as the dress of a thief.
Thus it has chanced that the old Gaelic institutions and manners have
never been exhibited in the simple light of truth. Up to the middle of
the last century, they were seen through one false medium: they have
since been seen through another. Once they loomed dimly through an
obscuring and distorting haze of prejudice; and no sooner had that
fog dispersed than they appeared bright with all the richest tints of
poetry. The time when a perfectly fair picture could have been painted
has now passed away. The original has long disappeared: no authentic
effigy exists; and all that is possible is to produce an imperfect
likeness by the help of two portraits, of which one is a coarse
caricature and the other a masterpiece of flattery.
Among the erroneous notions which have been commonly received concerning
the history and character of the Highlanders is one which it is
especially necessary to correct. During the century which commenced with
the campaign of Montrose, and terminated with the campaign of the young
Pretender, every great military exploit which was achieved on British
ground in the cause of the House of Stuart was achieved by the valour
of Gaelic tribes. The English have therefore very naturally ascribed to
those tribes the feelings of English cavaliers, profound reverence for
the royal office, and enthusiastic attachment to the royal family. A
close inquiry however will show that the strength of these feelings
among the Celtic clans has been greatly exaggerated.
In studying the history of our civil contentions, we must never forget
that the same names, badges, and warcries had very different meanings
in different parts of the British isles. We have already seen how little
there was in common between the Jacobitism of Ireland and the Jacobitism
of England. The Jacobitism of the Scotch Highlander was, at least in the
seventeenth century, a third variety, quite distinct from the other
two. The Gaelic population was far indeed from holding the doctrines of
passive obedience and nonresistance. In fact disobedience and resistance
made up the ordinary life of that population. Some of those very clans
which it has been the fashion to describe as so enthusiastically loyal
that they were prepared to stand by James to the death, even when he was
in the wrong, had never, while he was on the throne, paid the smallest
respect to his authority, even when he was clearly in the right. Their
practice, their calling, had been to disobey and to defy him. Some of
them had actually been proscribed by sound of horn for the crime of
withstanding his lawful commands, and would have torn to pieces without
scruple any of his officers who had dared to venture beyond the passes
for the purpose of executing his warrant. The English Whigs were accused
by their opponents of holding doctrines dangerously lax touching the
obedience due to the chief magistrate. Yet no respectable English Whig
ever defended rebellion, except as a rare and extreme remedy for rare
and extreme evils. But among those Celtic chiefs whose loyalty has been
the theme of so much warm eulogy were some whose whole existence from
boyhood upwards had been one long rebellion. Such men, it is evident,
were not likely to see the Revolution in the light in which it appeared
to an Oxonian nonjuror. On the other hand they were not, like the
aboriginal Irish, urged to take arms by impatience of Saxon domination.
To such domination the Scottish Celt had never been subjected. He
occupied his own wild and sterile region, and followed his own national
usages. In his dealings with the Saxons, he was rather the oppressor
than the oppressed. He exacted black mail from them: he drove away their
flocks and herds; and they seldom dared to pursue him to his native
wilderness. They had never portioned out among themselves his dreary
region of moor and shingle. He had never seen the tower of his
hereditary chieftains occupied by an usurper who could not speak Gaelic,
and who looked on all who spoke it as brutes and slaves; nor had his
national and religious feelings ever been outraged by the power
and splendour of a church which he regarded as at once foreign and
heretical.
The real explanation of the readiness with which a large part of the
population of the Highlands, twice in the seventeenth century, drew
the sword for the Stuarts is to be found in the internal quarrels which
divided the commonwealth of clans. For there was a commonwealth of
clans, the image, on a reduced scale, of the great commonwealth of
European nations. In the smaller of these two commonwealths, as in the
larger, there were wars, treaties, alliances, disputes about territory
and precedence, a system of public law, a balance of power. There was
one inexhaustible source of discontents and disputes. The feudal system
had, some centuries before, been introduced into the hill country, but
had neither destroyed the patriarchal system nor amalgamated completely
with it. In general he who was lord in the Norman polity was also
chief in the Celtic polity; and, when this was the case, there was no
conflict. But, when the two characters were separated, all the willing
and loyal obedience was reserved for the chief. The lord had only what
he could get and hold by force. If he was able, by the help of his own
tribe, to keep in subjection tenants who were not of his own tribe,
there was a tyranny of clan over clan, the most galling, perhaps, of
all forms of tyranny. At different times different races had risen to an
authority which had produced general fear and envy. The Macdonalds had
once possessed, in the Hebrides and throughout the mountain country of
Argyleshire and Invernessshire, an ascendancy similar to that which the
House of Austria had once possessed in Christendom. But the ascendancy
of the Macdonalds had, like the ascendancy of the House of Austria,
passed away; and the Campbells, the children of Diarmid, had become in
the Highlands what the Bourbons had become in Europe. The parallel might
be carried far. Imputations similar to those which it was the fashion to
throw on the French government were thrown on the Campbells. A peculiar
dexterity, a peculiar plausibility of address, a peculiar contempt
for all the obligations of good faith, were ascribed, with or without
reason, to the dreaded race. "Fair and false like a Campbell" became
a proverb. It was said that Mac Callum More after Mac Callum More had,
with unwearied, unscrupulous, and unrelenting ambition, annexed mountain
after mountain and island after island to the original domains of
his House. Some tribes had been expelled from their territory, some
compelled to pay tribute, some incorporated with the conquerors. At
length the number of fighting men who bore the name of Campbell was
sufficient to meet in the field of battle the combined forces of all
the other western clans, [324] It was during those civil troubles which
commenced in 1638 that the power of this aspiring family reached the
zenith. The Marquess of Argyle was the head of a party as well as the
head of a tribe. Possessed of two different kinds of authority, he
used each of them in such a way as to extend and fortify the other.
The knowledge that he could bring into the field the claymores of five
thousand half heathen mountaineers added to his influence among the
austere Presbyterians who filled the Privy Council and the General
Assembly at Edinburgh. His influence at Edinburgh added to the terror
which he inspired among the mountains. Of all the Highland princes whose
history is well known to us he was the greatest and most dreaded. It was
while his neighbours were watching the increase of his power with hatred
which fear could scarcely keep down that Montrose called them to arms.
The call was promptly obeyed. A powerful coalition of clans waged war,
nominally for King Charles, but really against Mac Callum More. It is
not easy for any person who has studied the history of that contest
to doubt that, if Argyle had supported the cause of monarchy, his
neighbours would have declared against it. Grave writers tell of the
victory gained at Inverlochy by the royalists over the rebels. But the
peasants who dwell near the spot speak more accurately. They talk of the
great battle won there by the Macdonalds over the Campbells.
The feelings which had produced the coalition against the Marquess
of Argyle retained their force long after his death. His son, Earl
Archibald, though a man of many eminent virtues, inherited, with the
ascendancy of his ancestors, the unpopularity which such ascendancy
could scarcely fail to produce. In 1675, several warlike tribes formed
a confederacy against him, but were compelled to submit to the superior
force which was at his command. There was therefore great joy from sea
to sea when, in 1681, he was arraigned on a futile charge, condemned to
death, driven into exile, and deprived of his dignities. There was great
alarm when, in 1685, he returned from banishment, and sent forth the
fiery cross to summon his kinsmen to his standard; and there was again
great joy when his enterprise had failed, when his army had melted away,
when his head had been fixed on the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and when
those chiefs who had regarded him as an oppressor had obtained from the
Crown, on easy terms, remissions of old debts and grants of new titles.
While England and Scotland generally were execrating the tyranny of
James, he was honoured as a deliverer in Appin and Lochaber, in Glenroy
and Glenmore, [325] The hatred excited by the power and ambition of the
House of Argyle was not satisfied even when the head of that House had
perished, when his children were fugitives, when strangers garrisoned
the Castle of Inverary, and when the whole shore of Loch Fyne was laid
waste by fire and sword. It was said that the terrible precedent which
had been set in the case of the Macgregors ought to be followed, and
that it ought to be made a crime to bear the odious name of Campbell.
On a sudden all was changed. The Revolution came. The heir of Argyle
returned in triumph. He was, as his predecessors had been, the head, not
only of a tribe, but of a party. The sentence which had deprived him
of his estate and of his honours was treated by the majority of the
Convention as a nullity. The doors of the Parliament House were thrown
open to him: he was selected from the whole body of Scottish nobles
to administer the oath of office to the new Sovereigns; and he was
authorised to raise an army on his domains for the service of the Crown.
He would now, doubtless, be as powerful as the most powerful of his
ancestors. Backed by the strength of the Government, he would demand
all the long and heavy arrears of rent and tribute which were due to him
from his neighbours, and would exact revenge for all the injuries and
insults which his family had suffered. There was terror and agitation
in the castles of twenty petty kings. The uneasiness was great among the
Stewarts of Appin, whose territory was close pressed by the sea on one
side, and by the race of Diarmid on the other. The Macnaghtens were
still more alarmed. Once they had been the masters of those beautiful
valleys through which the Ara and the Shira flow into Loch Fyne. But the
Campbells had prevailed. The Macnaghtens had been reduced to subjection,
and had, generation after generation, looked up with awe and detestation
to the neighbouring Castle of Inverary. They had recently been promised
a complete emancipation. A grant, by virtue of which their chief would
have held his estate immediately from the Crown, had been prepared, and
was about to pass the seals, when the Revolution suddenly extinguished a
hope which amounted almost to certainty, [326]
The Macleans remembered that, only fourteen years before, their lands
had been invaded and the seat of their chief taken and garrisoned by
the Campbells, [327] Even before William and Mary had been proclaimed
at Edinburgh, a Maclean, deputed doubtless by the head of his tribe, had
crossed the sea to Dublin, and had assured James that, if two or three
battalions from Ireland were landed in Argyleshire, they would be
immediately joined by four thousand four hundred claymores, [328]
A similar spirit animated the Camerons. Their ruler, Sir Ewan Cameron,
of Lochiel, surnamed the Black, was in personal qualities unrivalled
among the Celtic princes. He was a gracious master, a trusty ally, a
terrible enemy. His countenance and bearing were singularly noble.
Some persons who had been at Versailles, and among them the shrewd and
observant Simon Lord Lovat, said that there was, in person and manner, a
most striking resemblance between Lewis the Fourteenth and Lochiel;
and whoever compares the portraits of the two will perceive that there
really was some likeness. In stature the difference was great. Lewis, in
spite of highheeled shoes and a towering wig, hardly reached the middle
size. Lochiel was tall and strongly built. In agility and skill at his
weapons he had few equals among the inhabitants of the hills. He had
repeatedly been victorious in single combat. He was a hunter of great
fame. He made vigorous war on the wolves which, down to his time, preyed
on the red deer of the Grampians; and by his hand perished the last
of the ferocious breed which is known to have wandered at large in
our island. Nor was Lochiel less distinguished by intellectual than
by bodily vigour. He might indeed have seemed ignorant to educated
and travelled Englishmen, who had studied the classics under Busby at
Westminster and under Aldrich at Oxford, who had learned something about
the sciences among Fellows of the Royal Society, and something about the
fine arts in the galleries of Florence and Rome. But though Lochiel
had very little knowledge of books, he was eminently wise in council,
eloquent in debate, ready in devising expedients, and skilful in
managing the minds of men. His understanding preserved him from those
follies into which pride and anger frequently hurried his brother
chieftains. Many, therefore, who regarded his brother chieftains as mere
barbarians, mentioned him with respect. Even at the Dutch Embassy in St.
James's Square he was spoken of as a man of such capacity and courage
that it would not be easy to find his equal. As a patron of literature
he ranks with the magnificent Dorset. If Dorset out of his own purse
allowed Dryden a pension equal to the profits of the Laureateship,
Lochiel is said to have bestowed on a celebrated bard, who had been
plundered by marauders, and who implored alms in a pathetic Gaelic ode,
three cows and the almost incredible sum of fifteen pounds sterling. In
truth, the character of this great chief was depicted two thousand five
hundred years before his birth, and depicted,--such is the power of
genius,--in colours which will be fresh as many years after his death.
He was the Ulysses of the Highlands, [329]
He held a large territory peopled by a race which reverenced no lord,
no king but himself. For that territory, however, he owed homage to the
House of Argyle. He was bound to assist his feudal superiors in war,
and was deeply in debt to them for rent. This vassalage he had doubtless
been early taught to consider as degrading and unjust. In his minority
he had been the ward in chivalry of the politic Marquess, and had been
educated at the Castle of Inverary. But at eighteen the boy broke loose
from the authority of his guardian, and fought bravely both for Charles
the First and for Charles the Second. He was therefore considered by
the English as a Cavalier, was well received at Whitehall after the
Restoration, and was knighted by the hand of James. The compliment,
however, which was paid to him, on one of his appearances at the English
Court, would not have seemed very flattering to a Saxon. "Take care of
your pockets, my lords," cried his Majesty; "here comes the king of the
thieves." The loyalty of Lochiel is almost proverbial: but it was
very unlike what was called loyalty in England. In the Records of the
Scottish Parliament he was, in the days of Charles the Second, described
as a lawless and rebellious man, who held lands masterfully and in high
contempt of the royal authority, [330] On one occasion the Sheriff of
Invernessshire was directed by King James to hold a court in Lochaber.
Lochiel, jealous of this interference with his own patriarchal
despotism, came to the tribunal at the head of four hundred armed
Camerons. He affected great reverence for the royal commission, but he
dropped three or four words which were perfectly understood by the pages
and armourbearers, who watched every turn of his eye. "Is none of my
lads so clever as to send this judge packing? I have seen them get up a
quarrel when there was less need of one." In a moment a brawl began
in the crowd, none could say how or where. Hundreds of dirks were out:
cries of "Help" and "Murder" were raised on all sides: many wounds were
inflicted: two men were killed: the sitting broke up in tumult; and the
terrified Sheriff was forced to put himself under the protection of the
chief, who, with a plausible bow of respect and concern, escorted him
safe home. It is amusing to think that the man who performed this feat
is constantly extolled as the most faithful and dutiful of subjects
by writers who blame Somers and Burnet as contemners of the legitimate
authority of Sovereigns. Lochiel would undoubtedly have laughed
the doctrine of nonresistance to scorn. But scarcely any chief in
Invernessshire had gained more than he by the downfall of the House
of Argyle, or had more reason than he to dread the restoration of that
House. Scarcely any chief in Invernessshire, therefore, was more alarmed
and disgusted by the proceedings of the Convention.
But of all those Highlanders who looked on the recent turn of fortune
with painful apprehension the fiercest and the most powerful were the
Macdonalds. More than one of the magnates who bore that widespread name
laid claim to the honour of being the rightful successor of those
Lords of the Isles, who, as late as the fifteenth century, disputed the
preeminence of the Kings of Scotland. This genealogical controversy,
which has lasted down to our own time, caused much bickering among the
competitors. But they all agreed in regretting the past splendour of
their dynasty, and in detesting the upstart race of Campbell. The old
feud had never slumbered. It was still constantly repeated, in verse and
prose, that the finest part of the domain belonging to the ancient
heads of the Gaelic nation, Islay, where they had lived with the pomp of
royalty, Iona, where they had been interred with the pomp of religion,
the paps of Jura, the rich peninsula of Kintyre, had been transferred
from the legitimate possessors to the insatiable Mac Callum More. Since
the downfall of the House of Argyle, the Macdonalds, if they had not
regained their ancient superiority, might at least boast that they had
now no superior. Relieved from the fear of their mighty enemy in the
West, they had turned their arms against weaker enemies in the East,
against the clan of Mackintosh and against the town of Inverness.
The clan of Mackintosh, a branch of an ancient and renowned tribe which
took its name and badge from the wild cat of the forests, had a dispute
with the Macdonalds, which originated, if tradition may be believed, in
those dark times when the Danish pirates wasted the coasts of Scotland.
Inverness was a Saxon colony among the Celts, a hive of traders and
artisans in the midst of a population of loungers and plunderers, a
solitary outpost of civilisation in a region of barbarians. Though the
buildings covered but a small part of the space over which they now
extend; though the arrival of a brig in the port was a rare event;
though the Exchange was the middle of a miry street, in which stood a
market cross much resembling a broken milestone; though the sittings of
the municipal council were held in a filthy den with a roughcast wall;
though the best houses were such as would now be called hovels; though
the best roofs were of thatch; though the best ceilings were of bare
rafters; though the best windows were, in bad weather, closed with
shutters for want of glass; though the humbler dwellings were mere
heaps of turf, in which barrels with the bottoms knocked out served the
purpose of chimneys; yet to the mountaineer of the Grampians this city
was as Babylon or as Tyre. Nowhere else had he seen four or five hundred
houses, two churches, twelve maltkilns, crowded close together. Nowhere
else had he been dazzled by the splendour of rows of booths, where
knives, horn spoons, tin kettles, and gaudy ribands were exposed to
sale. Nowhere else had he been on board of one of those huge ships which
brought sugar and wine over the sea from countries far beyond the limits
of his geography, [331] It is not strange that the haughty and warlike
Macdonalds, despising peaceful industry, yet envying the fruits of that
industry, should have fastened a succession of quarrels on the people of
Inverness. In the reign of Charles the Second, it had been apprehended
that the town would be stormed and plundered by those rude neighbours.
The terms of peace which they offered showed how little they regarded
the authority of the prince and of the law. Their demand was that a
heavy tribute should be paid to them, that the municipal magistrates
should bind themselves by an oath to deliver tip to the vengeance of the
clan every burgher who should shed the blood of a Macdonald, and that
every burgher who should anywhere meet a person wearing the Macdonald
tartan should ground arms in token of submission. Never did Lewis the
Fourteenth, not even when he was encamped between Utrecht and Amsterdam,
treat the States General with such despotic insolence, [332] By the
intervention of the Privy Council of Scotland a compromise was effected:
but the old animosity was undiminished.
Common enmities and common apprehensions produced a good understanding
between the town and the clan of Mackintosh. The foe most hated and
dreaded by both was Colin Macdonald of Keppoch, an excellent specimen of
the genuine Highland Jacobite. Keppoch's whole life had been passed
in insulting and resisting the authority of the Crown. He had been
repeatedly charged on his allegiance to desist from his lawless
practices, but had treated every admonition with contempt. The
government, however, was not willing to resort to extremities against
him; and he long continued to rule undisturbed the stormy peaks of
Coryarrick, and the gigantic terraces which still mark the limits of
what was once the Lake of Glenroy. He was famed for his knowledge of all
the ravines and caverns of that dreary region; and such was the
skill with which he could track a herd of cattle to the most secret
hidingplace that he was known by the nickname of Coll of the Cows,
[333] At length his outrageous violations of all law compelled the Privy
Council to take decided steps. He was proclaimed a rebel: letters of
fire and sword were issued against him under the seal of James; and, a
few weeks before the Revolution, a body of royal troops, supported
by the whole strength of the Mackintoshes, marched into Keppoch's
territories. He gave battle to the invaders, and was victorious. The
King's forces were put to flight; the King's captain was slain; and this
by a hero whose loyalty to the King many writers have very complacently
contrasted with the factious turbulence of the Whigs, [334]
If Keppoch had ever stood in any awe of the government, he was
completely relieved from that feeling by the general anarchy which
followed the Revolution. He wasted the lands of the Mackintoshes,
advanced to Inverness, and threatened the town with destruction. The
danger was extreme. The houses were surrounded only by a wall which
time and weather had so loosened that it shook in every storm. Yet the
inhabitants showed a bold front; and their courage was stimulated by
their preachers. Sunday the twenty-eighth of April was a day of alarm
and confusion. The savages went round and round the small colony of
Saxons like a troop of famished wolves round a sheepfold. Keppoch
threatened and blustered. He would come in with all his men. He would
sack the place. The burghers meanwhile mustered in arms round the
market cross to listen to the oratory of their ministers. The day closed
without an assault; the Monday and the Tuesday passed away in intense
anxiety; and then an unexpected mediator made his appearance.
Dundee, after his flight from Edinburgh, had retired to his country seat
in that valley through which the Glamis descends to the ancient castle
of Macbeth. Here he remained quiet during some time. He protested that
he had no intention of opposing the new government. He declared himself
ready to return to Edinburgh, if only he could be assured that he should
be protected against lawless violence; and he offered to give his word
of honour, or, if that were not sufficient, to give bail, that he would
keep the peace. Some of his old soldiers had accompanied him, and formed
a garrison sufficient to protect his house against the Presbyterians
of the neighbourhood. Here he might possibly have remained unharmed
and harmless, had not an event for which he was not answerable made his
enemies implacable, and made him desperate, [335]
An emissary of James had crossed from Ireland to Scotland with letters
addressed to Dundee and Balcarras. Suspicion was excited. The messenger
was arrested, interrogated, and searched; and the letters were found.
Some of them proved to be from Melfort, and were worthy of him. Every
line indicated those qualities which had made him the abhorrence of his
country and the favourite of his master. He announced with delight the
near approach of the day of vengeance and rapine, of the day when the
estates of the seditious would be divided among the loyal, and when many
who had been great and prosperous would be exiles and beggars. The King,
Melfort said, was determined to be severe. Experience had at length
convinced his Majesty that mercy would be weakness. Even the Jacobites
were disgusted by learning that a Restoration would be immediately
followed by a confiscation and a proscription. Some of them did not
hesitate to say that Melfort was a villain, that he hated Dundee and
Balcarras, that he wished to ruin them, and that, for that end, he had
written these odious despatches, and had employed a messenger who had
very dexterously managed to be caught. It is however quite certain that
Melfort, after the publication of these papers, continued to stand as
high as ever in the favour of James. It can therefore hardly be doubted
that, in those passages which shocked even the zealous supporters of
hereditary right, the Secretary merely expressed with fidelity the
feelings and intentions of his master, [336] Hamilton, by virtue of the
powers which the Estates had, before their adjournment, confided to him,
ordered Balcarras and Dundee to be arrested. Balcarras was taken and
confined, first in his own house, and then in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh.
But to seize Dundee was not so easy an enterprise. As soon as he
heard that warrants were out against him, he crossed the Dee with his
followers, and remained a short time in the wild domains of the House
of Gordon. There he held some communications with the Macdonalds and
Camerons about a rising. But he seems at this time to have known little
and cared little about the Highlanders. For their national character he
probably felt the dislike of a Saxon, for their military character the
contempt of a professional soldier. He soon returned to the Lowlands,
and stayed there till he learned that a considerable body of troops had
been sent to apprehend him, [337] He then betook himself to the hill
country as his last refuge, pushed northward through Strathdon and
Strathbogie, crossed the Spey, and, on the morning of the first of May,
arrived with a small band of horsemen at the camp of Keppoch before
Inverness.
The new situation in which Dundee was now placed, the new view of
society which was presented to him, naturally suggested new projects to
his inventive and enterprising spirit. The hundreds of athletic Celts
whom he saw in their national order of battle were evidently not allies
to be despised. If he could form a great coalition of clans, if he could
muster under one banner ten or twelve thousand of those hardy warriors,
if he could induce them to submit to the restraints of discipline, what
a career might be before him!
A commission from King James, even when King James was securely seated
on the throne, had never been regarded with much respect by Coll of the
Cows. That chief, however, hated the Campbells with all the hatred of a
Macdonald, and promptly gave in his adhesion to the cause of the House
of Stuart. Dundee undertook to settle the dispute between Keppoch and
Inverness. The town agreed to pay two thousand dollars, a sum which,
small as it might be in the estimation of the goldsmiths of Lombard
Street, probably exceeded any treasure that had ever been carried
into the wilds of Coryarrick. Half the sum was raised, not without
difficulty, by the inhabitants; and Dundee is said to have passed his
word for the remainder, [338]
He next tried to reconcile the Macdonalds with the Mackintoshes, and
flattered himself that the two warlike tribes, lately arrayed against
each other, might be willing to fight side by side under his command.
But he soon found that it was no light matter to take up a Highland
feud. About the rights of the contending Kings neither clan knew any
thing or cared any thing. The conduct of both is to be ascribed to local
passions and interests. What Argyle was to Keppoch, Keppoch was to the
Mackintoshes. The Mackintoshes therefore remained neutral; and their
example was followed by the Macphersons, another branch of the race of
the wild cat. This was not Dundee's only disappointment. The Mackenzies,
the Frasers, the Grants, the Munros, the Mackays, the Macleods, dwelt
at a great distance from the territory of Mac Callum More. They had no
dispute with him; they owed no debt to him: and they had no reason to
dread the increase of his power. They therefore did not sympathize with
his alarmed and exasperated neighbours, and could not be induced to join
the confederacy against him, [339] Those chiefs, on the other hand, who
lived nearer to Inverary, and to whom the name of Campbell had long been
terrible and hateful, greeted Dundee eagerly, and promised to meet him
at the head of their followers on the eighteenth of May. During the
fortnight which preceded that day, he traversed Badenoch and Athol, and
exhorted the inhabitants of those districts to rise in arms. He dashed
into the Lowlands with his horsemen, surprised Perth, and carried off
some Whig gentlemen prisoners to the mountains. Meanwhile the fiery
crosses had been wandering from hamlet to hamlet over all the heaths and
mountains thirty miles round Ben Nevis; and when he reached the trysting
place in Lochaber he found that the gathering had begun. The head
quarters were fixed close to Lochiel's house, a large pile built
entirely of fir wood, and considered in the Highlands as a superb
palace. Lochiel, surrounded by more than six hundred broadswords, was
there to receive his guests. Macnaghten of Macnaghten and Stewart of
Appin were at the muster with their little clans. Macdonald of Keppoch
led the warriors who had, a few months before, under his command, put
to flight the musketeers of King James. Macdonald of Clanronald was of
tender years: but he was brought to the camp by his uncle, who acted
at Regent during the minority. The youth was attended by a picked body
guard composed of his own cousins, all comely in appearance, and good
men of their hands. Macdonald of Glengarry, conspicuous by his dark
brow and his lofty stature, came from that great valley where a chain of
lakes, then unknown to fame, and scarcely set down in maps, is now
the daily highway of steam vessels passing and reprising between the
Atlantic and the German Ocean. None of the rulers of the mountains had a
higher sense of his personal dignity, or was more frequently engaged in
disputes with other chiefs. He generally affected in his manners and
in his housekeeping a rudeness beyond that of his rude neighbours, and
professed to regard the very few luxuries which had then found their way
from the civilised parts of the world into the Highlands as signs of the
effeminacy and degeneracy of the Gaelic race. But on this occasion he
chose to imitate the splendour of Saxon warriors, and rode on horseback
before his four hundred plaided clansmen in a steel cuirass and a coat
embroidered with gold lace. Another Macdonald, destined to a lamentable
and horrible end, led a band of hardy freebooters from the dreary
pass of Glencoe. Somewhat later came the great Hebridean potentates.
Macdonald of Sleat, the most opulent and powerful of all the grandees
who laid claim to the lofty title of Lord of the Isles, arrived at
the head of seven hundred fighting men from Sky. A fleet of long boats
brought five hundred Macleans from Mull under the command of their
chief, Sir John of Duart. A far more formidable array had in old times
followed his forefathers to battle. But the power, though not the
spirit, of the clan had been broken by the arts and arms of the
Campbells. Another band of Macleans arrived under a valiant leader, who
took his title from Lochbuy, which is, being interpreted, the Yellow
Lake, [340]
It does not appear that a single chief who had not some special cause to
dread and detest the House of Argyle obeyed Dundee's summons. There
is indeed strong reason to believe that the chiefs who came would have
remained quietly at home if the government had understood the politics
of the Highlands. Those politics were thoroughly understood by one able
and experienced statesman, sprung from the great Highland family of
Mackenzie, the Viscount Tarbet. He at this conjuncture pointed out to
Melville by letter, and to Mackay in conversation, both the cause and
the remedy of the distempers which seemed likely to bring on Scotland
the calamities of civil war. There was, Tarbet said, no general
disposition to insurrection among the Gael. Little was to be apprehended
even from those popish clans which were under no apprehension of being
subjected to the yoke of the Campbells. It was notorious that the ablest
and most active of the discontented chiefs troubled themselves not at
all about the questions which were in dispute between the Whigs and the
Tories. Lochiel in particular, whose eminent personal qualities made him
the most important man among the mountaineers, cared no more for James
than for William. If the Camerons, the Macdonalds, and the Macleans
could be convinced that, under the new government, their estates and
their dignities would be safe, if Mac Callum More would make some
concessions, if their Majesties would take on themselves the payment of
some arrears of rent, Dundee might call the clans to arms; but he would
call to little purpose. Five thousand pounds, Tarbet thought, would be
sufficient to quiet all the Celtic magnates; and in truth, though that
sum might seem ludicrously small to the politicians of Westminster,
though it was not larger than the annual gains of the Groom of the Stole
or of the Paymaster of the Forces, it might well be thought immense by
a barbarous potentate who, while he ruled hundreds of square miles, and
could bring hundreds of warriors into the field, had perhaps never had
fifty guineas at once in his coffers, [341]
Though Tarbet was considered by the Scottish ministers of the new
Sovereigns as a very doubtful friend, his advice was not altogether
neglected. It was resolved that overtures such as he recommended should
be made to the malecontents. Much depended on the choice of an agent;
and unfortunately the choice showed how little the prejudices of the
wild tribes of the hills were understood at Edinburgh. A Campbell was
selected for the office of gaining over to the cause of King William
men whose only quarrel to King William was that he countenanced the
Campbells. Offers made through such a channel were naturally regarded as
at once snares and insults. After this it was to no purpose that Tarbet
wrote to Lochiel and Mackay to Glengarry. Lochiel returned no answer to
Tarbet; and Glengarry returned to Mackay a coldly civil answer, in which
the general was advised to imitate the example of Monk, [342]
Mackay, meanwhile, wasted some weeks in marching, in countermarching,
and in indecisive skirmishing. He afterwards honestly admitted that the
knowledge which he had acquired, during thirty years of military service
on the Continent, was, in the new situation in which he was placed,
useless to him. It was difficult in such a country to track the enemy.
It was impossible to drive him to bay. Food for an invading army was not
to be found in the wilderness of heath and shingle; nor could supplies
for many days be transported far over quaking bogs and up precipitous
ascents. The general found that he had tired his men and their horses
almost to death, and yet had effected nothing. Highland auxiliaries
might have been of the greatest use to him: but he had few such
auxiliaries. The chief of the Grants, indeed, who had been persecuted
by the late government, and had been accused of conspiring with the
unfortunate Earl of Argyle, was zealous on the side of the Revolution.
Two hundred Mackays, animated probably by family feeling, came from the
northern extremity of our island, where at midsummer there is no night,
to fight under a commander of their own name: but in general the clans
which took no part in the insurrection awaited the event with cold
indifference, and pleased themselves with the hope that they should
easily make their peace with the conquerors, and be permitted to assist
in plundering the conquered.
An experience of little more than a month satisfied Mackay that there
was only one way in which the Highlands could be subdued. It was idle
to run after the mountaineers up and down their mountains. A chain of
fortresses must be built in the most important situations, and must be
well garrisoned. The place with which the general proposed to begin was
Inverlochy, where the huge remains of an ancient castle stood and still
stand. This post was close to an arm of the sea, and was in the heart of
the country occupied by the discontented clans. A strong force stationed
there, and supported, if necessary, by ships of war, would effectually
overawe at once the Macdonalds, the Camerons, and the Macleans, [343]
While Mackay was representing in his letters to the council at Edinburgh
the necessity of adopting this plan, Dundee was contending with
difficulties which all his energy and dexterity could not completely
overcome.
The Highlanders, while they continued to be a nation living under a
peculiar polity, were in one sense better and in another sense worse
fitted for military purposes than any other nation in Europe. The
individual Celt was morally and physically well qualified for war, and
especially for war in so wild and rugged a country as his own. He was
intrepid, strong, fleet, patient of cold, of hunger, and of fatigue. Up
steep crags, and over treacherous morasses, he moved as easily as the
French household troops paced along the great road from Versailles
to Marli. He was accustomed to the use of weapons and to the sight of
blood: he was a fencer; he was a marksman; and, before he had ever stood
in the ranks, he was already more than half a soldier.
As the individual Celt was easily turned into a soldier, so a tribe
of Celts was easily turned into a battalion of soldiers. All that was
necessary was that the military organization should be conformed to the
patriarchal organization. The Chief must be Colonel: his uncle or his
brother must be Major: the tacksmen, who formed what may be called the
peerage of the little community, must be the Captains: the company of
each Captain must consist of those peasants who lived on his land, and
whose names, faces, connections, and characters, were perfectly known to
him: the subaltern officers must be selected among the Duinhe Wassels,
proud of the eagle's feather: the henchman was an excellent orderly: the
hereditary piper and his sons formed the band: and the clan became at
once a regiment. In such a regiment was found from the first moment that
exact order and prompt obedience in which the strength of regular armies
consists. Every man, from highest to lowest, was in his proper place,
and knew that place perfectly. It was not necessary to impress by
threats or by punishment on the newly enlisted troops the duty of
regarding as their head him whom they had regarded as their head ever
since they could remember any thing. Every private had, from infancy,
respected his corporal much and his Captain more, and had almost adored
his Colonel. There was therefore no danger of mutiny. There was
as little danger of desertion. Indeed the very feelings which most
powerfully impel other soldiers to desert kept the Highlander to his
standard. If he left it, whither was he to go? All his kinsmen, all
his friends, were arrayed round it. To separate himself from it was to
separate himself for ever from his family, and to incur all the misery
of that very homesickness which, in regular armies, drives so many
recruits to abscond at the risk of stripes and of death. When these
things are fairly considered, it will not be thought strange that the
Highland clans should have occasionally achieved great martial exploits.
But those very institutions which made a tribe of highlanders, all
bearing the same name, and all subject to the same ruler, so formidable
in battle, disqualified the nation for war on a large scale. Nothing was
easier than to turn clans into efficient regiments; but nothing was more
difficult than to combine these regiments in such a manner as to form an
efficient army. From the shepherds and herdsmen who fought in the ranks
up to the chiefs, all was harmony and order. Every man looked up to his
immediate superior, and all looked up to the common head. But with the
chief this chain of subordination ended. He knew only how to govern, and
had never learned to obey. Even to royal proclamations, even to Acts of
Parliament, he was accustomed to yield obedience only when they were in
perfect accordance with his own inclinations. It was not to be expected
that he would pay to any delegated authority a respect which he was
in the habit of refusing to the supreme authority. He thought himself
entitled to judge of the propriety of every order which he received. Of
his brother chiefs, some were his enemies and some his rivals. It was
hardly possible to keep him from affronting them, or to convince him
that they were not affronting him. All his followers sympathized with
all his animosities, considered his honour as their own, and were
ready at his whistle to array themselves round him in arms against the
commander in chief. There was therefore very little chance that by any
contrivance any five clans could be induced to cooperate heartily with
one another during a long campaign. The best chance, however, was
when they were led by a Saxon. It is remarkable that none of the great
actions performed by the Highlanders during our civil wars was performed
under the command of a Highlander. Some writers have mentioned it as
a proof of the extraordinary genius of Montrose and Dundee that those
captains, though not themselves of Gaelic race or speech, should have
been able to form and direct confederacies of Gaelic tribes. But in
truth it was precisely because Montrose and Dundee were not Highlanders,
that they were able to lead armies composed of Highland clans. Had
Montrose been chief of the Camerons, the Macdonalds would never have
submitted to his authority. Had Dundee been chief of Clanronald, he
would never have been obeyed by Glengarry. Haughty and punctilious men,
who scarcely acknowledged the king to be their superior, would not have
endured the superiority of a neighbour, an equal, a competitor. They
could far more easily bear the preeminence of a distinguished stranger,
yet even to such a stranger they would allow only a very limited and a
very precarious authority. To bring a chief before a court martial, to
shoot him, to cashier him, to degrade him, to reprimand him publicly,
was impossible. Macdonald of Keppoch or Maclean of Duart would have
struck dead any officer who had demanded his sword, and told him to
consider himself as under arrest; and hundreds of claymores would
instantly have been drawn to protect the murderer. All that was left to
the commander under whom these potentates condescended to serve was to
argue with them, to supplicate them, to flatter them, to bribe them;
and it was only during a short time that any human skill could preserve
harmony by these means. For every chief thought himself entitled to
peculiar observance; and it was therefore impossible to pay marked
court to any one without disobliging the rest. The general found himself
merely the president of a congress of petty kings. He was perpetually
called upon to hear and to compose disputes about pedigrees, about
precedence, about the division of spoil. His decision, be it what it
might, must offend somebody. At any moment he might hear that his right
wing had fired on his centre in pursuance of some quarrel two hundred
years old, or that a whole battalion had marched back to its native
glen, because another battalion had been put in the post of honour. A
Highland bard might easily have found in the history of the year 1689
subjects very similar to those with which the war of Troy furnished the
great poets of antiquity. One day Achilles is sullen, keeps his tent,
and announces his intention to depart with all his men. The next day
Ajax is storming about the camp, and threatening to cut the throat of
Ulysses.
Hence it was that, though the Highlanders achieved some great exploits
in the civil wars of the seventeenth century, those exploits left no
trace which could be discerned after the lapse of a few weeks. Victories
of strange and almost portentous splendour produced all the consequences
of defeat. Veteran soldiers and statesmen were bewildered by those
sudden turns of fortune. It was incredible that undisciplined men should
have performed such feats of arms. It was incredible that such feats
of arms, having been performed, should be immediately followed by the
triumph of the conquered and the submission of the conquerors. Montrose,
having passed rapidly from victory to victory, was, in the full career
of success, suddenly abandoned by his followers. Local jealousies and
local interests had brought his army together. Local jealousies and
local interests dissolved it. The Gordons left him because they fancied
that he neglected them for the Macdonalds. The Macdonalds left him
because they wanted to plunder the Campbells. The force which had once
seemed sufficient to decide the fate of a kingdom melted away in a few
days; and the victories of Tippermuir and Kilsyth were followed by the
disaster of Philiphaugh. Dundee did not live long enough to experience
a similar reverse of fortune; but there is every reason to believe that,
had his life been prolonged one fortnight, his history would have been
the history of Montrose retold.
Dundee made one attempt, soon after the gathering of the clans in
Lochaber, to induce them to submit to the discipline of a regular army.
He called a council of war to consider this question. His opinion was
supported by all the officers who had joined him from the low country.
Distinguished among them were James Seton, Earl of Dunfermline, and
James Galloway, Lord Dunkeld. The Celtic chiefs took the other side.
Lochiel, the ablest among them, was their spokesman, and argued the
point with much ingenuity and natural eloquence. "Our system,"--such was
the substance of his reasoning, "may not be the best: but we were bred
to it from childhood: we understand it perfectly: it is suited to our
peculiar institutions, feelings, and manners. Making war after our own
fashion, we have the expertness and coolness of veterans. Making war
in any other way, we shall be raw and awkward recruits. To turn us into
soldiers like those of Cromwell and Turenne would be the business of
years: and we have not even weeks to spare. We have time enough to
unlearn our own discipline, but not time enough to learn yours." Dundee,
with high compliments to Lochiel, declared himself convinced, and
perhaps was convinced: for the reasonings of the wise old chief were by
no means without weight, [344]
Yet some Celtic usages of war were such as Dundee could not tolerate.
Cruel as he was, his cruelty always had a method and a purpose. He still
hoped that he might be able to win some chiefs who remained neutral;
and he carefully avoided every act which could goad them into open
hostility. This was undoubtedly a policy likely to promote the interest
of James; but the interest of James was nothing to the wild marauders
who used his name and rallied round his banner merely for the purpose of
making profitable forays and wreaking old grudges. Keppoch especially,
who hated the Mackintoshes much more than he loved the Stuarts, not only
plundered the territory of his enemies, but burned whatever he could not
carry away. Dundee was moved to great wrath by the sight of the blazing
dwellings. "I would rather," he said, "carry a musket in a respectable
regiment than be captain of such a gang of thieves." Punishment was of
course out of the question. Indeed it may be considered as a remarkable
proof of the general's influence that Coll of the Cows deigned to
apologize for conduct for which in a well governed army he would have
been shot, [345]
As the Grants were in arms for King William, their property was
considered as fair prize. Their territory was invaded by a party of
Camerons: a skirmish took place: some blood was shed; and many cattle
were carried off to Dundee's camp, where provisions were greatly needed.
This raid produced a quarrel, the history of which illustrates in the
most striking manner the character of a Highland army. Among those who
were slain in resisting the Camerons was a Macdonald of the Glengarry
branch, who had long resided among the Grants, had become in feelings
and opinions a Grant, and had absented himself from the muster of his
tribe. Though he had been guilty of a high offence against the Gaelic
code of honour and morality, his kinsmen remembered the sacred tie which
he had forgotten. Good or bad, he was bone of their bone: he was flesh
of their flesh; and he should have been reserved for their justice. The
name which he bore, the blood of the Lords of the Isles, should have
been his protection. Glengarry in a rage went to Dundee and demanded
vengeance on Lochiel and the whole race of Cameron. Dundee replied that
the unfortunate gentleman who had fallen was a traitor to the clan as
well as to the King. Was it ever heard of in war that the person of an
enemy, a combatant in arms, was to be held inviolable on account of his
name and descent? And, even if wrong had been done, how was it to be
redressed? Half the army must slaughter the other half before a finger
could be laid on Lochiel. Glengarry went away raging like a madman.
Since his complaints were disregarded by those who ought to right him,
he would right himself: he would draw out his men, and fall sword in
hand on the murderers of his cousin. During some time he would listen to
no expostulation. When he was reminded that Lochiel's followers were in
number nearly double of the Glengarry men, "No matter," he cried, "one
Macdonald is worth two Camerons." Had Lochiel been equally irritable and
boastful, it is probable that the Highland insurrection would have given
little more trouble to the government, and that the rebels would have
perished obscurely in the wilderness by one another's claymores.
But nature had bestowed on him in large measure the qualities of a
statesman, though fortune had hidden those qualities in an obscure
corner of the world. He saw that this was not a time for brawling: his
own character for courage had long been established; and his temper was
under strict government. The fury of Glengarry, not being inflamed
by any fresh provocation, rapidly abated. Indeed there were some who
suspected that he had never been quite so pugnacious as he had affected
to be, and that his bluster was meant only to keep up his own dignity
in the eyes of his retainers. However this might be, the quarrel was
composed; and the two chiefs met, with the outward show of civility, at
the general's table, [346]
What Dundee saw of his Celtic allies must have made him desirous to
have in his army some troops on whose obedience he could depend, and who
would not, at a signal from their colonel, turn their arms against their
general and their king. He accordingly, during the months of May
and June, sent to Dublin a succession of letters earnestly imploring
assistance. If six thousand, four thousand, three thousand, regular
soldiers were now sent to Lochaber, he trusted that his Majesty would
soon hold a court in Holyrood. That such a force might be spared
hardly admitted of a doubt. The authority of James was at that time
acknowledged in every part of Ireland, except on the shores of Lough
Erne and behind the ramparts of Londonderry. He had in that kingdom
an army of forty thousand men. An eighth part of such an army would
scarcely be missed there, and might, united with the clans which were in
insurrection, effect great things in Scotland.
Dundee received such answers to his applications as encouraged him
to hope that a large and well appointed force would soon be sent from
Ulster to join him. He did not wish to try the chance of battle before
these succours arrived, [347] Mackay, on the other hand, was weary
of marching to and fro in a desert. His men were exhausted and out of
heart. He thought it desirable that they should withdraw from the hill
country; and William was of the same opinion.
In June therefore the civil war was, as if by concert between the
generals, completely suspended. Dundee remained in Lochaber, impatiently
awaiting the arrival of troops and supplies from Ireland. It was
impossible for him to keep his Highlanders together in a state of
inactivity. A vast extent of moor and mountain was required to furnish
food for so many mouths. The clans therefore went back to their own
glens, having promised to reassemble on the first summons.
Meanwhile Mackay's soldiers, exhausted by severe exertions and
privations, were taking their ease in quarters scattered over the low
country from Aberdeen to Stirling. Mackay himself was at Edinburgh,
and was urging the ministers there to furnish him with the means
of constructing a chain of fortifications among the Grampians. The
ministers had, it should seem, miscalculated their military resources.
It had been expected that the Campbells would take the field in such
force as would balance the whole strength of the clans which marched
under Dundee. It had also been expected that the Covenanters of the
West would hasten to swell the ranks of the army of King William.
Both expectations were disappointed. Argyle had found his principality
devastated, and his tribe disarmed and disorganized. A considerable time
must elapse before his standard would be surrounded by an array such as
his forefathers had led to battle. The Covenanters of the West were in
general unwilling to enlist. They were assuredly not wanting in courage;
and they hated Dundee with deadly hatred. In their part of the country
the memory of his cruelty was still fresh. Every village had its own
tale of blood. The greyheaded father was missed in one dwelling, the
hopeful stripling in another. It was remembered but too well how the
dragoons had stalked into the peasant's cottage, cursing and damning
him, themselves, and each other at every second word, pushing from the
ingle nook his grandmother of eighty, and thrusting their hands into the
bosom of his daughter of sixteen; how the abjuration had been tendered
to him; how he had folded his arms and said "God's will be done"; how
the Colonel had called for a file with loaded muskets; and how in three
minutes the goodman of the house had been wallowing in a pool of
blood at his own door. The seat of the martyr was still vacant at the
fireside; and every child could point out his grave still green amidst
the heath. When the people of this region called their oppressor a
servant of the devil, they were not speaking figuratively. They believed
that between the bad man and the bad angel there was a close alliance on
definite terms; that Dundee had bound himself to do the work of hell on
earth, and that, for high purposes, hell was permitted to protect its
slave till the measure of his guilt should be full. But, intensely as
these men abhorred Dundee, most of them had a scruple about drawing
the sword for William. A great meeting was held in the parish church of
Douglas; and the question was propounded, whether, at a time when war
was in the land, and when an Irish invasion was expected, it were not a
duty to take arms. The debate was sharp and tumultuous. The orators on
one side adjured their brethren not to incur the curse denounced against
the inhabitants of Meroz, who came not to the help of the Lord against
the mighty. The orators on the other side thundered against sinful
associations. There were malignants in William's Army: Mackay's
own orthodoxy was problematical: to take military service with such
comrades, and under such a general, would be a sinful association. At
length, after much wrangling, and amidst great confusion, a vote was
taken; and the majority pronounced that to take military service would
be a sinful association. There was however a large minority; and, from
among the members of this minority, the Earl of Angus was able to raise
a body of infantry, which is still, after the lapse of more than a
hundred and sixty years, known by the name of the Cameronian Regiment.
The first Lieutenant Colonel was Cleland, that implacable avenger of
blood who had driven Dundee from the Convention. There was no small
difficulty in filling the ranks: for many West country Whigs, who did
not think it absolutely sinful to enlist, stood out for terms subversive
of all military discipline. Some would not serve under any colonel,
major, captain, serjeant, or corporal, who was not ready to sign
the Covenant. Others insisted that, if it should be found absolutely
necessary to appoint any officer who had taken the tests imposed in the
late reign, he should at least qualify himself for command by publicly
confessing his sin at the head of the regiment. Most of the enthusiasts
who had proposed these conditions were induced by dexterous management
to abate much of their demands. Yet the new regiment had a very peculiar
character. The soldiers were all rigid Puritans. One of their first acts
was to petition the Parliament that all drunkenness, licentiousness, and
profaneness might be severely punished. Their own conduct must have been
exemplary: for the worst crime which the most extravagant bigotry could
impute to them was that of huzzaing on the King's birthday. It was
originally intended that with the military organization of the corps
should he interwoven the organization of a Presbyterian congregation.
Each company was to furnish an elder; and the elders were, with the
chaplain, to form an ecclesiastical court for the suppression of
immorality and heresy. Elders, however, were not appointed: but a noted
hill preacher, Alexander Shields, was called to the office of chaplain.
It is not easy to conceive that fanaticism can be heated to a higher
temperature than that which is indicated by the writings of Shields.
According to him, it should seem to be the first duty of a Christian
ruler to persecute to the death every heterodox subject, and the first
duty of every Christian subject to poniard a heterodox ruler. Yet there
was then in Scotland an enthusiasm compared with which the enthusiasm
even of this man was lukewarm. The extreme Covenanters protested against
his defection as vehemently as he had protested against the Black
Indulgence and the oath of supremacy, and pronounced every man who
entered Angus's regiment guilty of a wicked confederacy with malignants,
[348]
Meanwhile Edinburgh Castle had fallen, after holding out more than two
months. Both the defence and the attack had been languidly conducted.
The Duke of Gordon, unwilling to incur the mortal hatred of those at
whose mercy his lands and life might soon be, did not choose to batter
the city. The assailants, on the other hand, carried on their
operations with so little energy and so little vigilance that a constant
communication was kept up between the Jacobites within the citadel
and the Jacobites without. Strange stories were told of the polite and
facetious messages which passed between the besieged and the besiegers.
On one occasion Gordon sent to inform the magistrates that he was going
to fire a salute on account of some news which he had received from
Ireland, but that the good town need not be alarmed, for that his guns
would not be loaded with ball. On another occasion, his drums beat a
parley: the white flag was hung out: a conference took place; and
he gravely informed the enemy that all his cards had been thumbed to
pieces, and begged them to let him have a few more packs. His friends
established a telegraph by means of which they conversed with him across
the lines of sentinels. From a window in the top story of one of the
loftiest of those gigantic houses, a few of which still darken the High
Street, a white cloth was hung out when all was well, and a black
cloth when things went ill. If it was necessary to give more detailed
information, a board was held up inscribed with capital letters so large
that they could, by the help of a telescope, be read on the ramparts of
the castle. Agents laden with letters and fresh provisions managed, in
various disguises and by various shifts, to cross the sheet of water
which then lay on the north of the fortress and to clamber up the
precipitous ascent. The peal of a musket from a particular half moon was
the signal which announced to the friends of the House of Stuart that
another of their emissaries had got safe up the rock. But at length the
supplies were exhausted; and it was necessary to capitulate. Favourable
terms were readily granted: the garrison marched out; and the keys were
delivered up amidst the acclamations of a great multitude of burghers,
[349]
But the government had far more acrimonious and more pertinacious
enemies in the Parliament House than in the Castle. When the Estates
reassembled after their adjournment, the crown and sceptre of Scotland
were displayed with the wonted pomp in the hall as types of the absent
sovereign. Hamilton rode in state from Holyrood up the High Street as
Lord High Commissioner; and Crawford took his seat as President.
Two Acts, one turning the Convention into a Parliament, the other
recognising William and Mary as King and Queen, were rapidly passed and
touched with the sceptre; and then the conflict of factions began, [350]
It speedily appeared that the opposition which Montgomery had organized
was irresistibly strong. Though made up of many conflicting elements,
Republicans, Whigs, Tories, zealous Presbyterians, bigoted Prelatists,
it acted for a time as one man, and drew to itself a multitude of those
mean and timid politicians who naturally gravitate towards the stronger
party. The friends of the government were few and disunited. Hamilton
brought but half a heart to the discharge of his duties. He had always
been unstable; and he was now discontented. He held indeed the highest
place to which a subject could aspire. But he imagined that he had only
the show of power while others enjoyed the substance, and was not sorry
to see those of whom he was jealous thwarted and annoyed. He did not
absolutely betray the prince whom he represented: but he sometimes
tampered with the chiefs of the Club, and sometimes did sly in turns to
those who were joined with him in the service of the Crown.
His instructions directed him to give the royal assent to laws for the
mitigating or removing of numerous grievances, and particularly to a law
restricting the power and reforming the constitution of the Committee of
Articles, and to a law establishing the Presbyterian Church Government,
[351] But it mattered not what his instructions were. The chiefs of the
Club were bent on finding a cause of quarrel. The propositions of
the Government touching the Lords of the Articles were contemptuously
rejected. Hamilton wrote to London for fresh directions; and soon a
second plan, which left little more than the name of the once despotic
Committee, was sent back. But the second plan, though such as would
have contented judicious and temperate reformers, shared the fate of the
first. Meanwhile the chiefs of the Club laid on the table a law which
interdicted the King from ever employing in any public office any person
who had ever borne any part in any proceeding inconsistent with the
Claim of Right, or who had ever obstructed or retarded any good design
of the Estates. This law, uniting, within a very short compass, almost
all the faults which a law can have, was well known to be aimed at the
new Lord President of the Court of Session, and at his son the new Lord
Advocate. Their prosperity and power made them objects of envy to every
disappointed candidate for office. That they were new men, the first of
their race who had risen to distinction, and that nevertheless they had,
by the mere force of ability, become as important in the state as the
Duke of Hamilton or the Earl of Argyle, was a thought which galled the
hearts of many needy and haughty patricians. To the Whigs of Scotland
the Dalrymples were what Halifax and Caermarthen were to the Whigs of
England. Neither the exile of Sir James, nor the zeal with which Sir
John had promoted the Revolution, was received as an atonement for old
delinquency. They had both served the bloody and idolatrous House.
They had both oppressed the people of God. Their late repentance might
perhaps give them a fair claim to pardon, but surely gave them no right
to honours and rewards.
The friends of the government in vain attempted to divert the attention
of the Parliament from the business of persecuting the Dalrymple family
to the important and pressing question of Church Government. They said
that the old system had been abolished; that no other system had been
substituted; that it was impossible to say what was the established
religion of the kingdom; and that the first duty of the legislature
was to put an end to an anarchy which was daily producing disasters and
crimes. The leaders of the Club were not to be so drawn away from
their object. It was moved and resolved that the consideration of
ecclesiastical affairs should be postponed till secular affairs had
been settled. The unjust and absurd Act of Incapacitation was carried
by seventy-four voices to twenty-four. Another vote still more obviously
aimed at the House of Stair speedily followed. The Parliament laid claim
to a Veto on the nomination of the judges, and assumed the power
of stopping the signet, in other words, of suspending the whole
administration of justice, till this claim should be allowed. It was
plain from what passed in debate that, though the chiefs of the Club
had begun with the Court of Session, they did not mean to end there.
The arguments used by Sir Patrick Hume and others led directly to the
conclusion that the King ought not to have the appointment of any great
public functionary. Sir Patrick indeed avowed, both in speech and in
writing, his opinion that the whole patronage of the realm ought to be
transferred from the Crown to the Estates. When the place of Treasurer,
of Chancellor, of Secretary, was vacant, the Parliament ought to submit
two or three names to his Majesty; and one of those names his Majesty
ought to be bound to select, [352]
All this time the Estates obstinately refused to grant any supply till
their Acts should have been touched with the sceptre. The Lord High
Commissioner was at length so much provoked by their perverseness that,
after long temporising, he refused to touch even Acts which were in
themselves unobjectionable, and to which his instructions empowered
him to consent. This state of things would have ended in some great
convulsion, if the King of Scotland had not been also King of a much
greater and more opulent kingdom. Charles the First had never found any
parliament at Westminster more unmanageable than William, during this
session, found the parliament at Edinburgh. But it was not in the power
of the parliament at Edinburgh to put on William such a pressure as the
parliament at Westminster had put on Charles. A refusal of supplies at
Westminster was a serious thing, and left the Sovereign no choice except
to yield, or to raise money by unconstitutional means, But a refusal of
supplies at Edinburgh reduced him to no such dilemma. The largest sum
that he could hope to receive from Scotland in a year was less than
what he received from England every fortnight. He had therefore only
to entrench himself within the limits of his undoubted prerogative,
and there to remain on the defensive, till some favourable conjuncture
should arrive, [353]
While these things were passing in the Parliament House, the civil war
in the Highlands, having been during a few weeks suspended, broke forth
again more violently than before. Since the splendour of the House of
Argyle had been eclipsed, no Gaelic chief could vie in power with the
Marquess of Athol. The district from which he took his title, and of
which he might almost be called the sovereign, was in extent larger than
an ordinary county, and was more fertile, more diligently cultivated,
and more thickly peopled than the greater part of the Highlands. The men
who followed his banner were supposed to be not less numerous than all
the Macdonalds and Macleans united, and were, in strength and courage,
inferior to no tribe in the mountains. But the clan had been made
insignificant by the insignificance of the chief. The Marquess was the
falsest, the most fickle, the most pusillanimous, of mankind. Already,
in the short space of six months, he had been several times a Jacobite,
and several times a Williamite. Both Jacobites and Williamites regarded
him with contempt and distrust, which respect for his immense power
prevented them from fully expressing. After repeatedly vowing fidelity
to both parties, and repeatedly betraying both, he began to think that
he should best provide for his safety by abdicating the functions
both of a peer and of a chieftain, by absenting himself both from the
Parliament House at Edinburgh and from his castle in the mountains, and
by quitting the country to which he was bound by every tie of duty and
honour at the very crisis of her fate. While all Scotland was waiting
with impatience and anxiety to see in which army his numerous retainers
would be arrayed, he stole away to England, settled himself at Bath, and
pretended to drink the waters, [354] His principality, left without a
head, was divided against itself. The general leaning of the Athol men
was towards King James. For they had been employed by him, only four
years before, as the ministers of his vengeance against the House of
Argyle. They had garrisoned Inverary: they had ravaged Lorn: they had
demolished houses, cut down fruit trees, burned fishing boats, broken
millstones, hanged Campbells, and were therefore not likely to be
pleased by the prospect of Mac Callum Mores restoration. One word from
the Marquess would have sent two thousand claymores to the Jacobite
side. But that word he would not speak; and the consequence was, that
the conduct of his followers was as irresolute and inconsistent as his
own.
While they were waiting for some indication of his wishes, they were
called to arms at once by two leaders, either of whom might, with some
show of reason, claim to be considered as the representative of the
absent chief. Lord Murray, the Marquess's eldest son, who was married to
a daughter of the Duke of Hamilton, declared for King William. Stewart
of Ballenach, the Marquess's confidential agent, declared for King
James. The people knew not which summons to obey. He whose authority
would have been held in profound reverence, had plighted faith to both
sides, and had then run away for fear of being under the necessity of
joining either; nor was it very easy to say whether the place which he
had left vacant belonged to his steward or to his heir apparent.
The most important military post in Athol was Blair Castle. The
house which now bears that name is not distinguished by any striking
peculiarity from other country seats of the aristocracy. The old
building was a lofty tower of rude architecture which commanded a
vale watered by the Garry. The walls would have offered very little
resistance to a battering train, but were quite strong enough to keep
the herdsmen of the Grampians in awe. About five miles south of this
stronghold, the valley of the Garry contracts itself into the celebrated
glen of Killiecrankie. At present a highway as smooth as any road in
Middlesex ascends gently from the low country to the summit of the
defile. White villas peep from the birch forest; and, on a fine summer
day, there is scarcely a turn of the pass at which may not be seen some
angler casting his fly on the foam of the river, some artist sketching
a pinnacle of rock, or some party of pleasure banqueting on the turf
in the fretwork of shade and sunshine. But, in the days of William
the Third, Killiecrankie was mentioned with horror by the peaceful and
industrious inhabitants of the Perthshire lowlands. It was deemed the
most perilous of all those dark ravines through which the marauders
of the hills were wont to sally forth. The sound, so musical to modern
ears, of the river brawling round the mossy rocks and among the smooth
pebbles, the dark masses of crag and verdure worthy of the pencil of
Wilson, the fantastic peaks bathed, at sunrise and sunset, with light
rich as that which glows on the canvass of Claude, suggested to our
ancestors thoughts of murderous ambuscades and of bodies stripped,
gashed, and abandoned to the birds of prey. The only path was narrow and
rugged: a horse could with difficulty be led up: two men could hardly
walk abreast; and, in some places, the way ran so close by the precipice
that the traveller had great need of a steady eye and foot. Many years
later, the first Duke of Athol constructed a road up which it was just
possible to drag his coach. But even that road was so steep and so
strait that a handful of resolute men might have defended it against
an army; [355] nor did any Saxon consider a visit to Killiecrankie as a
pleasure, till experience had taught the English Government that the
weapons by which the Highlanders could be most effectually subdued were
the pickaxe and the spade.
The country which lay just above this pass was now the theatre of a
war such as the Highlands had not often witnessed. Men wearing the same
tartan, and attached to the same lord, were arrayed against each other.
The name of the absent chief was used, with some show of reason, on both
sides. Ballenach, at the head of a body of vassals who considered him as
the representative of the Marquess, occupied Blair Castle. Murray, with
twelve hundred followers, appeared before the walls and demanded to be
admitted into the mansion of his family, the mansion which would one day
be his own. The garrison refused to open the gates. Messages were sent
off by the besiegers to Edinburgh, and by the besieged to Lochaber,
[356] In both places the tidings produced great agitation. Mackay and
Dundee agreed in thinking that the crisis required prompt and strenuous
exertion. On the fate of Blair Castle probably depended the fate of all
Athol. On the fate of Athol might depend the fate of Scotland. Mackay
hastened northward, and ordered his troops to assemble in the low
country of Perthshire. Some of them were quartered at such a distance
that they did not arrive in time. He soon, however, had with him the
three Scotch regiments which had served in Holland, and which bore the
names of their Colonels, Mackay himself, Balfour, and Ramsay. There
was also a gallant regiment of infantry from England, then called
Hastings's, but now known as the thirteenth of the line. With these old
troops were joined two regiments newly levied in the Lowlands. One of
them was commanded by Lord Kenmore; the other, which had been raised on
the Border, and which is still styled the King's own Borderers, by
Lord Leven. Two troops of horse, Lord Annandale's and Lord Belhaven's,
probably made up the army to the number of above three thousand men.
Belhaven rode at the head of his troop: but Annandale, the most factious
of all Montgomery's followers, preferred the Club and the Parliament
House to the field, [357]
Dundee, meanwhile, had summoned all the clans which acknowledged his
commission to assemble for an expedition into Athol. His exertions were
strenuously seconded by Lochiel. The fiery crosses were sent again in
all haste through Appin and Ardnamurchan, up Glenmore, and along Loch
Leven. But the call was so unexpected, and the time allowed was so
short, that the muster was not a very full one. The whole number of
broadswords seems to have been under three thousand. With this force,
such as it was, Dundee set forth. On his march he was joined by succours
which had just arrived from Ulster. They consisted of little more than
three hundred Irish foot, ill armed, ill clothed, and ill disciplined.
Their commander was an officer named Cannon, who had seen service in
the Netherlands, and who might perhaps have acquitted himself well in a
subordinate post and in a regular army, but who was altogether unequal
to the part now assigned to him, [358] He had already loitered among the
Hebrides so long that some ships which had been sent with him, and which
were laden with stores, had been taken by English cruisers. He and his
soldiers had with difficulty escaped the same fate. Incompetent as he
was, he bore a commission which gave him military rank in Scotland next
to Dundee.
The disappointment was severe. In truth James would have done better
to withhold all assistance from the Highlanders than to mock them by
sending them, instead of the well appointed army which they had asked
and expected, a rabble contemptible in numbers and appearance. It was
now evident that whatever was done for his cause in Scotland must be
done by Scottish hands, [359]
While Mackay from one side, and Dundee from the other, were advancing
towards Blair Castle, important events had taken place there. Murray's
adherents soon began to waver in their fidelity to him. They had an old
antipathy to Whigs; for they considered the name of Whig as synonymous
with the name of Campbell. They saw arrayed against them a large number
of their kinsmen, commanded by a gentleman who was supposed to possess
the confidence of the Marquess. The besieging army therefore
melted rapidly away. Many returned home on the plea that, as their
neighbourhood was about to be the seat of war, they must place their
families and cattle in security. Others more ingenuously declared that
they would not fight in such a quarrel. One large body went to a brook,
filled their bonnets with water, drank a health to King James, and then
dispersed, [360] Their zeal for King James, however, did not induce them
to join the standard of his general. They lurked among the rocks and
thickets which overhang the Garry, in the hope that there would soon
be a battle, and that, whatever might be the event, there would be
fugitives and corpses to plunder.
Murray was in a strait. His force had dwindled to three or four hundred
men: even in those men he could put little trust; and the Macdonalds
and Camerons were advancing fast. He therefore raised the siege of
Blair Castle, and retired with a few followers into the defile of
Killiecrankie. There he was soon joined by a detachment of two hundred
fusileers whom Mackay had sent forward to secure the pass. The main body
of the Lowland army speedily followed, [361]
Early in the morning of Saturday the twenty-seventh of July, Dundee
arrived at Blair Castle. There he learned that Mackay's troops were
already in the ravine of Killiecrankie. It was necessary to come to
a prompt decision. A council of war was held. The Saxon officers were
generally against hazarding a battle. The Celtic chiefs were oŁ a
different opinion. Glengarry and Lochiel were now both of a mind.
"Fight, my Lord" said Lochiel with his usual energy; "fight immediately:
fight, if you have only one to three. Our men are in heart. Their
only fear is that the enemy should escape. Give them their way; and be
assured that they will either perish or gain a complete victory. But
if you restrain them, if you force them to remain on the defensive,
I answer for nothing. If we do not fight, we had better break up and
retire to our mountains." [362]
Dundee's countenance brightened. "You hear, gentlemen," he said to his
Lowland officers; "you hear the opinion of one who understands Highland
war better than any of us." No voice was raised on the other side. It
was determined to fight; and the confederated clans in high spirits set
forward to encounter the enemy.
The enemy meanwhile had made his way up the pass. The ascent had been
long and toilsome: for even the foot had to climb by twos and threes;
and the baggage horses, twelve hundred in number, could mount only one
at a time. No wheeled carriage had ever been tugged up that arduous
path. The head of the column had emerged and was on the table land,
while the rearguard was still in the plain below. At length the passage
was effected; and the troops found themselves in a valley of no great
extent. Their right was flanked by a rising ground, their left by the
Garry. Wearied with the morning's work, they threw themselves on the
grass to take some rest and refreshment.
Early in the afternoon, they were roused by an alarm that the
Highlanders were approaching. Regiment after regiment started up and got
into order. In a little while the summit of an ascent which was about a
musket shot before them was covered with bonnets and plaids. Dundee
rode forward for the purpose of surveying the force with which he was
to contend, and then drew up his own men with as much skill as their
peculiar character permitted him to exert. It was desirable to keep the
clans distinct. Each tribe, large or small, formed a column separated
from the next column by a wide interval. One of these battalions might
contain seven hundred men, while another consisted of only a hundred
and twenty. Lochiel had represented that it was impossible to mix men
of different tribes without destroying all that constituted the peculiar
strength of a Highland army, [363]
On the right, close to the Garry, were the Macleans. Next to them were
Cannon and his Irish foot. Then came the Macdonalds of Clanronald,
commanded by the guardian of their young prince. On the left were other
bands of Macdonalds. At the head of one large battalion towered the
stately form of Glengarry, who bore in his hand the royal standard
of King James the Seventh, [364] Still further to the left were the
cavalry, a small squadron consisting of some Jacobite gentlemen who had
fled from the Lowlands to the mountains and of about forty of Dundee's
old troopers. The horses had been ill fed and ill tended among the
Grampians, and looked miserably lean and feeble. Beyond them was Lochiel
with his Camerons. On the extreme left, the men of Sky were marshalled
by Macdonald of Sleat, [365]
In the Highlands, as in all countries where war has not become a
science, men thought it the most important duty of a commander to set
an example of personal courage and of bodily exertion. Lochiel was
especially renowned for his physical prowess. His clansmen looked big
with pride when they related how he had himself broken hostile ranks and
hewn down tall warriors. He probably owed quite as much of his influence
to these achievements as to the high qualities which, if fortune had
placed him in the English Parliament or at the French court, would have
made him one of the foremost men of his age. He had the sense however to
perceive how erroneous was the notion which his countrymen had formed.
He knew that to give and to take blows was not the business of a
general. He knew with how much difficulty Dundee had been able to keep
together, during a few days, an army composed of several clans; and he
knew that what Dundee had effected with difficulty Cannon would not be
able to effect at all. The life on which so much depended must not be
sacrificed to a barbarous prejudice. Lochiel therefore adjured Dundee
not to run into any unnecessary danger. "Your Lordship's business,"
he said, "is to overlook every thing, and to issue your commands. Our
business is to execute those commands bravely and promptly." Dundee
answered with calm magnanimity that there was much weight in what his
friend Sir Ewan had urged, but that no general could effect any thing
great without possessing the confidence of his men. "I must establish
my character for courage. Your people expect to see their leaders in the
thickest of the battle; and to day they shall see me there. I promise
you, on my honour, that in future fights I will take more care of
myself."
Meanwhile a fire of musketry was kept up on both sides, but more
skilfully and more steadily by the regular soldiers than by the
mountaineers. The space between the armies was one cloud of smoke. Not
a few Highlanders dropped; and the clans grew impatient. The sun however
was low in the west before Dundee gave the order to prepare for action.
His men raised a great shout. The enemy, probably exhausted by the toil
of the day, returned a feeble and wavering cheer. "We shall do it now,"
said Lochiel: "that is not the cry of men who are going to win." He
had walked through all his ranks, had addressed a few words to every
Cameron, and had taken from every Cameron a promise to conquer or die,
[366]
It was past seven o'clock. Dundee gave the word. The Highlanders dropped
their plaids. The few who were so luxurious as to wear rude socks of
untanned hide spurned them away. It was long remembered in Lochaber that
Lochiel took off what probably was the only pair of shoes in his clan,
and charged barefoot at the head of his men. The whole line advanced
firing. The enemy returned the fire and did much execution. When only a
small space was left between the armies, the Highlanders suddenly flung
away their firelocks, drew their broadswords, and rushed forward with a
fearful yell. The Lowlanders prepared to receive the shock; but this was
then a long and awkward process; and the soldiers were still fumbling
with the muzzles of their guns and the handles of their bayonets when
the whole flood of Macleans, Macdonalds, and Camerons came down. In two
minutes the battle was lost and won. The ranks of Balfour's regiment
broke. He was cloven down while struggling in the press. Ramsay's men
turned their backs and dropped their arms. Mackay's own foot were
swept away by the furious onset of the Camerons. His brother and nephew
exerted themselves in vain to rally the men. The former was laid dead on
the ground by a stroke from a claymore. The latter, with eight wounds
on his body, made his way through the tumult and carnage to his uncle's
side. Even in that extremity Mackay retained all his selfpossession.
He had still one hope. A charge of horse might recover the day; for
of horse the bravest Highlanders were supposed to stand in awe. But he
called on the horse in vain.
Belhaven indeed behaved like a gallant gentleman: but his troopers,
appalled by the rout of the infantry, galloped off in disorder:
Annandale's men followed: all was over; and the mingled torrent of
redcoats and tartans went raving down the valley to the gorge of
Killiecrankie.
Mackay, accompanied by one trusty servant, spurred bravely through the
thickest of the claymores and targets, and reached a point from which
he had a view of the field. His whole army had disappeared, with
the exception of some Borderers whom Leven had kept together, and of
Hastings's regiment, which had poured a murderous fire into the Celtic
ranks, and which still kept unbroken order. All the men that could be
collected were only a few hundreds. The general made haste to lead them
across the Carry, and, having put that river between them and the enemy,
paused for a moment to meditate on his situation.
He could hardly understand how the conquerors could be so unwise as to
allow him even that moment for deliberation. They might with ease have
killed or taken all who were with him before the night closed in. But
the energy of the Celtic warriors had spent itself in one furious rush
and one short struggle. The pass was choked by the twelve hundred beasts
of burden which carried the provisions and baggage of the vanquished
army. Such a booty was irresistibly tempting to men who were impelled to
war quite as much by the desire of rapine as by the desire of glory. It
is probable that few even of the chiefs were disposed to leave so rich
a price for the sake of King James. Dundee himself might at that moment
have been unable to persuade his followers to quit the heaps of spoil,
and to complete the great work of the day; and Dundee was no more.
At the beginning of the action he had taken his place in front of his
little band of cavalry. He bade them follow him, and rode forward. But
it seemed to be decreed that, on that day, the Lowland Scotch should in
both armies appear to disadvantage. The horse hesitated. Dundee turned
round, and stood up in his stirrups, and, waving his hat, invited them
to come on. As he lifted his arm, his cuirass rose, and exposed the
lower part of his left side. A musket ball struck him; his horse sprang
forward and plunged into a cloud of smoke and dust, which hid from both
armies the fall of the victorious general. A person named Johnstone was
near him and caught him as he sank down from the saddle. "How goes the
day?" said Dundee. "Well for King James;" answered Johnstone: "but I am
sorry for Your Lordship." "If it is well for him," answered the dying
man, "it matters the less for me." He never spoke again; but when, half
an hour later, Lord Dunfermline and some other friends came to the spot,
they thought that they could still discern some faint remains of life.
The body, wrapped in two plaids, was carried to the Castle of Blair,
[367]
Mackay, who was ignorant of Dundee's fate, and well acquainted with
Dundee's skill and activity, expected to be instantly and hotly pursued,
and had very little expectation of being able to save even the scanty
remains of the vanquished army. He could not retreat by the pass: for
the Highlanders were already there. He therefore resolved to push across
the mountains towards the valley of the Tay. He soon overtook two or
three hundred of his runaways who had taken the same road. Most of them
belonged to Ramsay's regiment, and must have seen service. But they were
unarmed: they were utterly bewildered by the recent disaster; and the
general could find among them no remains either of martial discipline or
of martial spirit. His situation was one which must have severely tried
the firmest nerves. Night had set in: he was in a desert: he had no
guide: a victorious enemy was, in all human probability, on his track;
and he had to provide for the safety of a crowd of men who had lost both
head and heart. He had just suffered a defeat of all defeats the
most painful and humiliating. His domestic feelings had been not less
severely wounded than his professional feelings. One dear kinsman had
just been struck dead before his eyes. Another, bleeding from many
wounds, moved feebly at his side. But the unfortunate general's courage
was sustained by a firm faith in God, and a high sense of duty to the
state. In the midst of misery and disgrace, he still held his head nobly
erect, and found fortitude, not only for himself; but for all around
him. His first care was to be sure of his road. A solitary light which
twinkled through the darkness guided him to a small hovel. The inmates
spoke no tongue but the Gaelic, and were at first scared by the
appearance of uniforms and arms. But Mackay's gentle manner removed
their apprehension: their language had been familiar to him in
childhood; and he retained enough of it to communicate with them. By
their directions, and by the help of a pocket map, in which the routes
through that wild country were roughly laid down, he was able to
find his way. He marched all night. When day broke his task was more
difficult than ever. Light increased the terror of his companions.
Hastings's men and Leven's men indeed still behaved themselves like
soldiers. But the fugitives from Ramsay's were a mere rabble. They had
flung away their muskets. The broadswords from which they had fled were
ever in their eyes. Every fresh object caused a fresh panic. A company
of herdsmen in plaids driving cattle was magnified by imagination into
a host of Celtic warriors. Some of the runaways left the main body and
fled to the hills, where their cowardice met with a proper punishment.
They were killed for their coats and shoes; and their naked carcasses
were left for a prey to the eagles of Ben Lawers. The desertion would
have been much greater, had not Mackay and his officers, pistol in hand,
threatened to blow out the brains of any man whom they caught attempting
to steal off.
At length the weary fugitives came in sight of Weems Castle. The
proprietor of the mansion was a friend to the new government, and
extended to them such hospitality as was in his power. His stores of
oatmeal were brought out, kine were slaughtered; and a rude and hasty
meal was set before the numerous guests. Thus refreshed, they again
set forth, and marched all day over bog, moor, and mountain. Thinly
inhabited as the country was, they could plainly see that the report of
their disaster had already spread far, and that the population was every
where in a state of great excitement. Late at night they reached Castle
Drummond, which was held for King William by a small garrison; and,
on the following day, they proceeded with less difficulty to Stirling,
[368]
The tidings of their defeat had outrun them. All Scotland was in a
ferment. The disaster had indeed been great: but it was exaggerated by
the wild hopes of one party and by the wild fears of the other. It was
at first believed that the whole army of King William had perished; that
Mackay himself had fallen; that Dundee, at the head of a great host of
barbarians, flushed with victory and impatient for spoil, had already
descended from the hills; that he was master of the whole country beyond
the Forth; that Fife was up to join him; that in three days he would
be at Stirling; that in a week he would be at Holyrood. Messengers were
sent to urge a regiment which lay in Northumberland to hasten across
the border. Others carried to London earnest entreaties that His Majesty
would instantly send every soldier that could be spared, nay, that he
would come himself to save his northern kingdom. The factions of the
Parliament House, awestruck by the common danger, forgot to wrangle.
Courtiers and malecontents with one voice implored the Lord High
Commissioner to close the session, and to dismiss them from a place
where their deliberations might soon be interrupted by the mountaineers.
It was seriously considered whether it might not be expedient to abandon
Edinburgh, to send the numerous state prisoners who were in the Castle
and the Tolbooth on board of a man of war which lay off Leith, and to
transfer the seat of government to Glasgow.
The news of Dundee's victory was every where speedily followed by the
news of his death; and it is a strong proof of the extent and vigour of
his faculties, that his death seems every where to have been regarded
as a complete set off against his victory. Hamilton, before he adjourned
the Estates, informed them that he had good tidings for them; that
Dundee was certainly dead; and that therefore the rebels had on the
whole sustained a defeat. In several letters written at that conjuncture
by able and experienced politicians a similar opinion is expressed. The
messenger who rode with the news of the battle to the English Court was
fast followed by another who carried a despatch for the King, and, not
finding His Majesty at Saint James's, galloped to Hampton Court. Nobody
in the capital ventured to break the seal; but fortunately, after the
letter had been closed, some friendly hand had hastily written on the
outside a few words of comfort: "Dundee is killed. Mackay has got to
Stirling:" and these words quieted the minds of the Londoners, [369]
From the pass of Killiecrankie the Highlanders had retired, proud
of their victory, and laden with spoil, to the Castle of Blair. They
boasted that the field of battle was covered with heaps of the Saxon
soldiers, and that the appearance of the corpses bore ample testimony to
the power of a good Gaelic broadsword in a good Gaelic right hand. Heads
were found cloven down to the throat, and sculls struck clean off just
above the ears. The conquerors however had bought their victory dear.
While they were advancing, they had been much galled by the musketry of
the enemy; and, even after the decisive charge, Hastings's Englishmen
and some of Leven's borderers had continued to keep up a steady fire. A
hundred and twenty Camerons had been slain: the loss of the Macdonalds
had been still greater; and several gentlemen of birth and note had
fallen, [370]
Dundee was buried in the church of Blair Athol: but no monument was
erected over his grave; and the church itself has long disappeared.
A rude stone on the field of battle marks, if local tradition can be
trusted, the place where he fell, [371] During the last three months of
his life he had approved himself a great warrior and politician; and his
name is therefore mentioned with respect by that large class of persons
who think that there is no excess of wickedness for which courage and
ability do not atone.
It is curious that the two most remarkable battles that perhaps were
ever gained by irregular over regular troops should have been fought
in the same week; the battle of Killiecrankie, and the battle of
Newton Butler. In both battles the success of the irregular troops was
singularly rapid and complete. In both battles the panic of the regular
troops, in spite of the conspicuous example of courage set by their
generals, was singularly disgraceful. It ought also to be noted that, of
these extraordinary victories, one was gained by Celts over Saxons, and
the other by Saxons over Celts. The victory of Killiecrankie indeed,
though neither more splendid nor more important than the victory of
Newton Butler, is far more widely renowned; and the reason is evident.
The Anglosaxon and the Celt have been reconciled in Scotland, and have
never been reconciled in Ireland. In Scotland all the great actions of
both races are thrown into a common stock, and are considered as making
up the glory which belongs to the whole country. So completely has the
old antipathy been extinguished that nothing is more usual than to
hear a Lowlander talk with complacency and even with pride of the
most humiliating defeat that his ancestors ever underwent. It would be
difficult to name any eminent man in whom national feeling and clannish
feeling were stronger than in Sir Walter Scott. Yet when Sir Walter
Scott mentioned Killiecrankie he seemed utterly to forget that he was
a Saxon, that he was of the same blood and of the same speech with
Ramsay's foot and Annandale's horse. His heart swelled with triumph
when he related how his own kindred had fled like hares before a smaller
number of warriors of a different breed and of a different tongue.
In Ireland the feud remains unhealed. The name of Newton Butler,
insultingly repeated by a minority, is hateful to the great majority
of the population. If a monument were set up on the field of battle, it
would probably be defaced: if a festival were held in Cork or Waterford
on the anniversary of the battle, it would probably be interrupted by
violence. The most illustrious Irish poet of our time would have thought
it treason to his country to sing the praises of the conquerors. One
of the most learned and diligent Irish archeologists of our time has
laboured, not indeed very successfully, to prove that the event of the
day was decided by a mere accident from which the Englishry could derive
no glory. We cannot wonder that the victory of the Highlanders should be
more celebrated than the victory of the Enniskilleners, when we consider
that the victory of the Highlanders is matter of boast to all Scotland,
and that the victory of the Enniskilleners is matter of shame to three
fourths of Ireland.
As far as the great interests of the State were concerned, it mattered
not at all whether the battle of Killiecrankie were lost or won. It is
very improbable that even Dundee, if he had survived the most glorious
day of his life, could have surmounted those difficulties which sprang
from the peculiar nature of his army, and which would have increased
tenfold as soon as the war was transferred to the Lowlands. It is
certain that his successor was altogether unequal to the task. During a
day or two, indeed, the new general might flatter himself that all
would go well. His army was rapidly swollen to near double the number of
claymores that Dundee had commanded. The Stewarts of Appin, who, though
full of zeal, had not been able to come up in time for the battle, were
among the first who arrived. Several clans, which had hitherto waited
to see which side was the stronger, were now eager to descend on the
Lowlands under the standard of King James the Seventh. The Grants
indeed continued to bear true allegiance to William and Mary; and the
Mackintoshes were kept neutral by unconquerable aversion to Keppoch.
But Macphersons, Farquharsons, and Frasers came in crowds to the camp at
Blair. The hesitation of the Athol men was at an end. Many of them
had lurked, during the fight, among the crags and birch trees of
Killiecrankie, and, as soon as the event of the day was decided, had
emerged from those hiding places to strip and butcher the fugitives
who tried to escape by the pass. The Robertsons, a Gaelic race, though
bearing a Saxon name, gave in at this conjuncture their adhesion to
the cause of the exiled king. Their chief Alexander, who took his
appellation from his lordship of Struan, was a very young man and a
student at the University of Saint Andrew's. He had there acquired a
smattering of letters, and had been initiated much more deeply into Tory
politics. He now joined the Highland army, and continued, through a long
life to be constant to the Jacobite cause. His part, however, in public
affairs was so insignificant that his name would not now be remembered,
if he had not left a volume of poems, always very stupid and often very
profligate. Had this book been manufactured in Grub Street, it would
scarcely have been honoured with a quarter of a line in the Dunciad. But
it attracted some notice on account of the situation of the writer. For,
a hundred and twenty years ago, an eclogue or a lampoon written by a
Highland chief was a literary portent, [372]
But, though the numerical strength of Cannon's forces was increasing,
their efficiency was diminishing. Every new tribe which joined the camp
brought with it some new cause of dissension. In the hour of peril, the
most arrogant and mutinous spirits will often submit to the guidance of
superior genius. Yet, even in the hour of peril, and even to the genius
of Dundee, the Celtic chiefs had gelded but a precarious and imperfect
obedience. To restrain them, when intoxicated with success and confident
of their strength, would probably have been too hard a task even for
him, as it had been, in the preceding generation, too hard a task for
Montrose. The new general did nothing but hesitate and blunder. One of
his first acts was to send a large body of men, chiefly Robertsons, down
into the low country for the purpose of collecting provisions. He seems
to have supposed that this detachment would without difficulty occupy
Perth. But Mackay had already restored order among the remains of his
army: he had assembled round him some troops which had not shared in the
disgrace of the late defeat; and he was again ready for action. Cruel as
his sufferings had been, he had wisely and magnanimously resolved not
to punish what was past. To distinguish between degrees of guilt was
not easy. To decimate the guilty would have been to commit a frightful
massacre. His habitual piety too led him to consider the unexampled
panic which had seized his soldiers as a proof rather of the divine
displeasure than of their cowardice. He acknowledged with heroic
humility that the singular firmness which he had himself displayed in
the midst of the confusion and havoc was not his own, and that he
might well, but for the support of a higher power, have behaved as
pusillanimously as any of the wretched runaways who had thrown away
their weapons and implored quarter in vain from the barbarous marauders
of Athol. His dependence on heaven did not, however, prevent him from
applying himself vigorously to the work of providing, as far as human
prudence could provide, against the recurrence of such a calamity as
that which he had just experienced. The immediate cause of his defeat
was the difficulty of fixing bayonets. The firelock of the Highlander
was quite distinct from the weapon which he used in close fight. He
discharged his shot, threw away his gun, and fell on with his sword.
This was the work of a moment. It took the regular musketeer two or
three minutes to alter his missile weapon into a weapon with which he
could encounter an enemy hand to hand; and during these two or three
minutes the event of the battle of Killiecrankie had been decided.
Mackay therefore ordered all his bayonets to be so formed that they
might be screwed upon the barrel without stopping it up, and that his
men might be able to receive a charge the very instant after firing,
[373]
As soon as he learned that a detachment of the Gaelic army was advancing
towards Perth, he hastened to meet them at the head of a body of
dragoons who had not been in the battle, and whose spirit was therefore
unbroken. On Wednesday the thirty-first of July, only four days after
his defeat, he fell in with the Robertsons near Saint Johnston's,
attacked them, routed them, killed a hundred and twenty of them, and
took thirty prisoners, with the loss of only a single soldier, [374]
This skirmish produced an effect quite out of proportion to the number
of the combatants or of the slain. The reputation of the Celtic arms
went down almost as fast as it had risen. During two or three days it
had been every where imagined that those arms were invincible. There was
now a reaction. It was perceived that what had happened at Killiecrankie
was an exception to ordinary rules, and that the Highlanders were
not, except in very peculiar circumstances, a match for good regular
soldiers.
Meanwhile the disorders of Cannon's camp went on increasing. He called
a council of war to consider what course it would be advisable to take.
But as soon as the council had met, a preliminary question was raised.
Who were entitled to be consulted? The army was almost exclusively a
Highland army. The recent victory had been won exclusively by Highland
warriors. Great chiefs, who had brought six or seven hundred fighting
men into the field, did not think it fair that they should be outvoted
by gentlemen from Ireland and from the low country, who bore indeed King
James's commission, and were called Colonels and Captains, but who were
Colonels without regiments and Captains without companies. Lochiel spoke
strongly in behalf of the class to which he belonged: but Cannon decided
that the votes of the Saxon officers should be reckoned, [375]
It was next considered what was to be the plan of the campaign. Lochiel
was for advancing, for marching towards Mackay wherever Mackay might be,
and for giving battle again. It can hardly be supposed that success
had so turned the head of the wise chief of the Camerons as to make
him insensible of the danger of the course which he recommended. But he
probably conceived that nothing but a choice between dangers was left to
him. His notion was that vigorous action was necessary to the very being
of a Highland army, and that the coalition of clans would last only
while they were impatiently pushing forward from battlefield to
battlefield. He was again overruled. All his hopes of success were
now at an end. His pride was severely wounded. He had submitted to the
ascendancy of a great captain: but he cared as little as any Whig for
a royal commission. He had been willing to be the right hand of Dundee:
but he would not be ordered about by Cannon. He quitted the camp, and
retired to Lochaber. He indeed directed his clan to remain. But the
clan, deprived of the leader whom it adored, and aware that he had
withdrawn himself in ill humour, was no longer the same terrible
column which had a few days before kept so well the vow to perish or to
conquer. Macdonald of Sleat, whose forces exceeded in number those of
any other of the confederate chiefs, followed Lochiel's example and
returned to Sky, [376]
Mackay's arrangements were by this time complete; and he had little
doubt that, if the rebels came down to attack him, the regular army
would retrieve the honour which had been lost at Killiecrankie. His
chief difficulties arose from the unwise interference of the ministers
of the Crown at Edinburgh with matters which ought to have been left
to his direction. The truth seems to be that they, after the ordinary
fashion of men who, having no military experience, sit in judgment on
military operations, considered success as the only test of the ability
of a commander. Whoever wins a battle is, in the estimation of such
persons, a great general: whoever is beaten is a lead general; and no
general had ever been more completely beaten than Mackay. William, on
the other hand, continued to place entire confidence in his unfortunate
lieutenant. To the disparaging remarks of critics who had never seen
a skirmish, Portland replied, by his master's orders, that Mackay was
perfectly trustworthy, that he was brave, that he understood war better
than any other officer in Scotland, and that it was much to be regretted
that any prejudice should exist against so good a man and so good a
soldier, [377]
The unjust contempt with which the Scotch Privy Councillors regarded
Mackay led them into a great error which might well have caused a great
disaster. The Cameronian regiment was sent to garrison Dunkeld. Of this
arrangement Mackay altogether disapproved. He knew that at Dunkeld
these troops would be near the enemy; that they would be far from all
assistance; that they would be in an open town; that they would be
surrounded by a hostile population; that they were very imperfectly
disciplined, though doubtless brave and zealous; that they were
regarded by the whole Jacobite party throughout Scotland with peculiar
malevolence; and that in all probability some great effort would be made
to disgrace and destroy them, [378]
The General's opinion was disregarded; and the Cameronians occupied the
post assigned to them. It soon appeared that his forebodings were just.
The inhabitants of the country round Dunkeld furnished Cannon with
intelligence, and urged him to make a bold push. The peasantry of
Athol, impatient for spoil, came in great numbers to swell his army.
The regiment hourly expected to be attacked, and became discontented and
turbulent. The men, intrepid, indeed, both from constitution and
from enthusiasm, but not yet broken to habits of military submission,
expostulated with Cleland, who commanded them. They had, they imagined,
been recklessly, if not perfidiously, sent to certain destruction.
They were protected by no ramparts: they had a very scanty stock of
ammunition: they were hemmed in by enemies. An officer might mount and
gallop beyond reach of danger in an hour; but the private soldier
must stay and be butchered. "Neither I," said Cleland, "nor any of my
officers will, in any extremity, abandon you. Bring out my horse, all
our horses; they shall be shot dead." These words produced a complete
change of feeling. The men answered that the horses should not be shot,
that they wanted no pledge from their brave Colonel except his word, and
that they would run the last hazard with him. They kept their promise
well. The Puritan blood was now thoroughly up; and what that blood was
when it was up had been proved on many fields of battle.
That night the regiment passed under arms. On the morning of the
following day, the twenty-first of August, all the hills round Dunkeld
were alive with bonnets and plaids. Cannon's army was much larger than
that which Dundee had commanded. More than a thousand horses laden with
baggage accompanied his march. Both the horses and baggage were probably
part of the booty of Killiecrankie. The whole number of Highlanders was
estimated by those who saw them at from four to five thousand men. They
came furiously on. The outposts of the Cameronians were speedily driven
in. The assailants came pouring on every side into the streets. The
church, however, held out obstinately. But the greater part of the
regiment made its stand behind a wall which surrounded a house belonging
to the Marquess of Athol. This wall, which had two or three days
before been hastily repaired with timber and loose stones, the soldiers
defended desperately with musket, pike, and halbert. Their bullets were
soon spent; but some of the men were employed in cutting lead from the
roof of the Marquess's house and shaping it into slugs. Meanwhile
all the neighbouring houses were crowded from top to bottom with
Highlanders, who kept up a galling fire from the windows. Cleland,
while encouraging his men, was shot dead. The command devolved on Major
Henderson.
In another minute Henderson fell pierced with three mortal wounds.
His place was supplied by Captain Munro, and the contest went on with
undiminished fury. A party of the Cameronians sallied forth, set fire to
the houses from which the fatal shots had come, and turned the keys in
the doors. In one single dwelling sixteen of the enemy were burnt alive.
Those who were in the fight described it as a terrible initiation for
recruits. Half the town was blazing; and with the incessant roar of
the guns were mingled the piercing shrieks of wretches perishing in the
flames. The struggle lasted four hours. By that time the Cameronians
were reduced nearly to their last flask of powder; but their spirit
never flagged. "The enemy will soon carry the wall. Be it so. We will
retreat into the house: we will defend it to the last; and, if they
force their way into it, we will burn it over their heads and our own."
But, while they were revolving these desperate projects, they observed
that the fury of the assault slackened. Soon the highlanders began to
fall back: disorder visibly spread among them; and whole bands began to
march off to the hills. It was in vain that their general ordered them
to return to the attack. Perseverance was not one of their military
virtues. The Cameronians meanwhile, with shouts of defiance, invited
Amalek and Moab to come back and to try another chance with the chosen
people. But these exhortations had as little effect as those of Cannon.
In a short time the whole Gaelic army was in full retreat towards Blair.
Then the drums struck up: the victorious Puritans threw their caps into
the air, raised, with one voice, a psalm of triumph and thanksgiving,
and waved their colours, colours which were on that day unfurled for the
first time in the face of an enemy, but which have since been proudly
borne in every quarter of the world, and which are now embellished with
the Sphinx and the Dragon, emblems of brave actions achieved in Egypt
and in China, [379]
The Cameronians had good reason to be joyful and thankful; for they had
finished the rear. In the rebel camp all was discord and dejection. The
Highlanders blamed Cannon: Cannon blamed the Highlanders; and the host
which had been the terror of Scotland melted fast away. The confederate
chiefs signed an association by which they declared themselves faithful
subjects of King James, and bound themselves to meet again at a
future time. Having gone through this form,--for it was no more,--they
departed, each to his home. Cannon and his Irishmen retired to the Isle
of Mull. The Lowlanders who had followed Dundee to the mountains shifted
for themselves as they best could. On the twenty-fourth of August,
exactly four weeks after the Gaelic army had won the battle of
Killiecrankie, that army ceased to exist. It ceased to exist, as the
army of Montrose had, more than forty years earlier, ceased to exist,
not in consequence of any great blow from without, but by a natural
dissolution, the effect of internal malformation. All the fruits of
victory were gathered by the vanquished. The Castle of Blair, which had
been the immediate object of the contest, opened its gates to Mackay;
and a chain of military posts, extending northward as far as Inverness,
protected the cultivators of the plains against the predatory inroads of
the mountaineers.
During the autumn the government was much more annoyed by the Whigs of
the low country, than by the Jacobites of the hills. The Club, which
had, in the late session of Parliament, attempted to turn the kingdom
into an oligarchical republic, and which had induced the Estates to
refuse supplies and to stop the administration of justice, continued
to sit during the recess, and harassed the ministers of the Crown by
systematic agitation. The organization of this body, contemptible as
it may appear to the generation which has seen the Roman Catholic
Association and the League against the Corn Laws, was then thought
marvellous and formidable. The leaders of the confederacy boasted that
they would force the King to do them right. They got up petitions and
addresses, tried to inflame the populace by means of the press and the
pulpit, employed emissaries among the soldiers, and talked of bringing
up a large body of Covenanters from the west to overawe the Privy
Council. In spite of every artifice, however, the ferment of the public
mind gradually subsided. The Government, after some hesitation, ventured
to open the Courts of justice which the Estates had closed. The Lords of
Session appointed by the King took their seats; and Sir James Dalrymple
presided. The Club attempted to induce the advocates to absent
themselves from the bar, and entertained some hope that the mob would
pull the judges from the bench. But it speedily became clear that there
was much more likely to be a scarcity of fees than of lawyers to take
them: the common people of Edinburgh were well pleased to see again a
tribunal associated in their imagination with the dignity and prosperity
of their city; and by many signs it appeared that the false and greedy
faction which had commanded a majority of the legislature did not
command a majority of the nation, [380]
CHAPTER XIV
Disputes in the English Parliament--The Attainder of Russell
reversed--Other Attainders reversed; Case of Samuel Johnson--Case of
Devonshire--Case of Oates--Bill of Rights--Disputes about a Bill of
Indemnity--Last Days of Jeffreys--The Whigs dissatisfied with
the King--Intemperance of Howe--Attack on Caermarthen--Attack on
Halifax--Preparations for a Campaign in Ireland--Schomberg--Recess
of the Parliament--State of Ireland; Advice of Avaux--Dismission of
Melfort; Schomberg lands in Ulster--Carrickfergus taken--Schomberg
advances into Leinster; the English and Irish Armies encamp near
each other--Schomberg declines a Battle--Frauds of the English
Commissariat--Conspiracy among the French Troops in the English
Service--Pestilence in the English Army--The English and Irish Armies
go into Winter Quarters--Various Opinions about Schomberg's
Conduct--Maritime Affairs--Maladministration of Torrington--Continental
Affairs--Skirmish at Walcourt--Imputations thrown on Marlborough--Pope
Innocent XI. succeeded by Alexander VIII.--The High Church Clergy
divided on the Subject of the Oaths--Arguments for taking the
Oaths--Arguments against taking the Oaths--A great Majority of
the Clergy take the Oaths--The Nonjurors;
Ken--Leslie--Sherlock--Hickes--Collier--Dodwell--Kettlewell;
Fitzwilliam--General Character of the Nonjuring Clergy--The Plan
of Comprehension; Tillotson--An Ecclesiastical Commission
issued.--Proceedings of the Commission--The Convocation of the Province
of Canterbury summoned; Temper of the Clergy--The Clergy ill affected
towards the King--The Clergy exasperated against the Dissenters by
the Proceedings of the Scotch Presbyterians--Constitution of the
Convocation--Election of Members of Convocation; Ecclesiastical
Preferments bestowed,--Compton discontented--The Convocation meets--The
High Churchmen a Majority of the Lower House of Convocation--Difference
between the two Houses of Convocation--The Lower House of Convocation
proves unmanageable.--The Convocation prorogued
TWENTY-four hours before the war in Scotland was brought to a close by
the discomfiture of the Celtic army at Dunkeld, the Parliament broke up
at Westminster. The Houses had sate ever since January without a recess.
The Commons, who were cooped up in a narrow space, had suffered severely
from heat and discomfort; and the health of many members had given way.
The fruit however had not been proportioned to the toil. The last three
months of the session had been almost entirely wasted in disputes, which
have left no trace in the Statute Book. The progress of salutary laws
had been impeded, sometimes by bickerings between the Whigs and the
Tories, and sometimes by bickerings between the Lords and the Commons.
The Revolution had scarcely been accomplished when it appeared that
the supporters of the Exclusion Bill had not forgotten what they had
suffered during the ascendancy of their enemies, and were bent on
obtaining both reparation and revenge. Even before the throne was
filled, the Lords appointed a committee to examine into the truth of
the frightful stories which had been circulated concerning the death of
Essex. The committee, which consisted of zealous Whigs, continued its
inquiries till all reasonable men were convinced that he had fallen
by his own hand, and till his wife, his brother, and his most intimate
friends were desirous that the investigation should be carried no
further, [381] Atonement was made, without any opposition on the part
of the Tories, to the memory and the families of some other victims,
who were themselves beyond the reach of human power. Soon after the
Convention had been turned into a Parliament, a bill for reversing
the attainder of Lord Russell was presented to the peers, was speedily
passed by them, was sent down to the Lower House, and was welcomed there
with no common signs of emotion. Many of the members had sate in that
very chamber with Russell. He had long exercised there an influence
resembling the influence which, within the memory of this generation,
belonged to the upright and benevolent Althorpe; an influence derived,
not from superior skill in debate or in declamation, but from spotless
integrity, from plain good sense, and from that frankness, that
simplicity, that good nature, which are singularly graceful and winning
in a man raised by birth and fortune high above his fellows. By
the Whigs Russell had been honoured as a chief; and his political
adversaries had admitted that, when he was not misled by associates
less respectable and more artful than himself, he was as honest and
kindhearted a gentleman as any in England. The manly firmness and
Christian meekness with which he had met death, the desolation of his
noble house, the misery of the bereaved father, the blighted prospects
of the orphan children, [382] above all, the union of womanly tenderness
and angelic patience in her who had been dearest to the brave sufferer,
who had sate, with the pen in her hand, by his side at the bar, who had
cheered the gloom of his cell, and who, on his last day, had shared with
him the memorials of the great sacrifice, had softened the hearts of
many who were little in the habit of pitying an opponent. That Russell
had many good qualities, that he had meant well, that he had been hardly
used, was now admitted even by courtly lawyers who had assisted in
shedding his blood, and by courtly divines who had done their worst to
blacken his reputation. When, therefore, the parchment which annulled
his sentence was laid on the table of that assembly in which, eight
years before, his face and his voice had been so well known, the
excitement was great. One old Whig member tried to speak, but was
overcome by his feelings. "I cannot," he said, "name my Lord Russell
without disorder. It is enough to name him. I am not able to say more."
Many eyes were directed towards that part of the house where Finch sate.
The highly honourable manner in which he had quitted a lucrative office,
as soon as he had found that he could not keep it without supporting
the dispensing power, and the conspicuous part which he had borne in the
defence of the Bishops, had done much to atone for his faults. Yet,
on this day, it could not be forgotten that he had strenuously exerted
himself, as counsel for the Crown, to obtain that judgment which was now
to be solemnly revoked. He rose, and attempted to defend his conduct:
but neither his legal acuteness, nor that fluent and sonorous elocution
which was in his family a hereditary gift, and of which none of his
family had a larger share than himself, availed him on this occasion.
The House was in no humour to hear him, and repeatedly interrupted
him by cries of "Order." He had been treated, he was told, with great
indulgence. No accusation had been brought against him. Why then
should he, under pretence of vindicating himself, attempt to throw
dishonourable imputations on an illustrious name, and to apologise for
a judicial murder? He was forced to sit dorm, after declaring that
he meant only to clear himself from the charge of having exceeded the
limits of his professional duty; that he disclaimed all intention of
attacking the memory of Lord Russell; and that he should sincerely
rejoice at the reversing of the attainder. Before the House rose the
bill was read a second time, and would have been instantly read a third
time and passed, had not some additions and omissions been proposed,
which would, it was thought, make the reparation more complete. The
amendments were prepared with great expedition: the Lords agreed to
them; and the King gladly gave his assent, [383]
This bill was soon followed by three other bills which annulled three
wicked and infamous judgments, the judgment against Sidney, the judgment
against Cornish, and the judgment against Alice Lisle, [384]
Some living Whigs obtained without difficulty redress for injuries which
they had suffered in the late reign. The sentence of Samuel Johnson was
taken into consideration by the House of Commons. It was resolved that
the scourging which he had undergone was cruel, and that his degradation
was of no legal effect. The latter proposition admitted of no dispute:
for he had been degraded by the prelates who had been appointed to
govern the diocese of London during Compton's suspension. Compton had
been suspended by a decree of the High Commission, and the decrees
of the High Commission were universally acknowledged to be nullities.
Johnson had therefore been stripped of his robe by persons who had no
jurisdiction over him. The Commons requested the king to compensate
the sufferer by some ecclesiastical preferment, [385] William, however,
found that he could not, without great inconvenience, grant this
request. For Johnson, though brave, honest and religious, had always
been rash, mutinous and quarrelsome; and, since he had endured for his
opinions a martyrdom more terrible than death, the infirmities of his
temper and understanding had increased to such a degree that he was as
disagreeable to Low Churchmen as to High Churchmen. Like too many other
men, who are not to be turned from the path of right by pleasure, by
lucre or by danger, he mistook the impulses of his pride and resentment
for the monitions of conscience, and deceived himself into a belief
that, in treating friends and foes with indiscriminate insolence and
asperity, he was merely showing his Christian faithfulness and courage.
Burnet, by exhorting him to patience and forgiveness of injuries, made
him a mortal enemy. "Tell His Lordship," said the inflexible priest,
"to mind his own business, and to let me look after mine." [386] It soon
began to be whispered that Johnson was mad. He accused Burnet of being
the author of the report, and avenged himself by writing libels so
violent that they strongly confirmed the imputation which they were
meant to refute. The King, therefore, thought it better to give out of
his own revenue a liberal compensation for the wrongs which the Commons
had brought to his notice than to place an eccentric and irritable man
in a situation of dignity and public trust. Johnson was gratified with a
present of a thousand pounds, and a pension of three hundred a year for
two lives. His son was also provided for in the public service, [387]
While the Commons were considering the case of Johnson, the Lords were
scrutinising with severity the proceedings which had, in the late reign,
been instituted against one of their own order, the Earl of Devonshire.
The judges who had passed sentence on him were strictly interrogated;
and a resolution was passed declaring that in his case the privileges of
the peerage had been infringed, and that the Court of King's Bench, in
punishing a hasty blow by a fine of thirty thousand pounds, had violated
common justice and the Great Charter, [388]
In the cases which have been mentioned, all parties seem to have agreed
in thinking that some public reparation was due. But the fiercest
passions both of Whigs and Tories were soon roused by the noisy claims
of a wretch whose sufferings, great as they might seem, had been
trifling when compared with his crimes. Gates had come back, like a
ghost from the place of punishment, to haunt the spots which had been
polluted by his guilt. The three years and a half which followed his
scourging he had passed in one of the cells of Newgate, except when on
certain days, the anniversaries of his perjuries, he had been brought
forth and set on the pillory. He was still, however, regarded by many
fanatics as a martyr; and it was said that they were able so far
to corrupt his keepers that, in spite of positive orders from the
government, his sufferings were mitigated by many indulgences. While
offenders, who, compared with him, were innocent, grew lean on the
prison allowance, his cheer was mended by turkeys and chines, capons and
sucking pigs, venison pasties and hampers of claret, the offerings of
zealous Protestants, [389] When James had fled from Whitehall, and when
London was in confusion, it was moved, in the council of Lords which had
provisionally assumed the direction of affairs, that Gates should be
set at liberty. The motion was rejected: [390] but the gaolers, not knowing
whom to obey in that time of anarchy, and desiring to conciliate a man
who had once been, and might perhaps again be, a terrible enemy, allowed
their prisoner to go freely about the town, [391] His uneven legs and
his hideous face, made more hideous by the shearing which his ears had
undergone, were now again seen every day in Westminster Hall and the
Court of Requests, [392] He fastened himself on his old patrons, and,
in that drawl which he affected as a mark of gentility, gave them the
history of his wrongs and of his hopes. It was impossible, he said,
that now, when the good cause was triumphant, the discoverer of the plot
could be overlooked. "Charles gave me nine hundred pounds a year. Sure
William will give me more." [393]
In a few weeks he brought his sentence before the House of Lords by a
writ of error. This is a species of appeal which raises no question of
fact. The Lords, while sitting judicially on the writ of error, were not
competent to examine whether the verdict which pronounced Gates guilty
was or was not according to the evidence. All that they had to consider
was whether, the verdict being supposed to be according to the evidence,
the judgment was legal. But it would have been difficult even for a
tribunal composed of veteran magistrates, and was almost impossible for
an assembly of noblemen who were all strongly biassed on one side or
on the other, and among whom there was at that time not a single person
whose mind had been disciplined by the study of jurisprudence, to
look steadily at the mere point of law, abstracted from the special
circumstances of the case. In the view of one party, a party which even
among the Whig peers was probably a minority, the appellant was a
man who had rendered inestimable services to the cause of liberty and
religion, and who had been requited by long confinement, by degrading
exposure, and by torture not to be thought of without a shudder. The
majority of the House more justly regarded him as the falsest, the most
malignant and the most impudent being that had ever disgraced the human
form. The sight of that brazen forehead, the accents of that lying
tongue, deprived them of all mastery over themselves. Many of them
doubtless remembered with shame and remorse that they had been his
dupes, and that, on the very last occasion on which he had stood before
them, he had by perjury induced them to shed the blood of one of
their own illustrious order. It was not to be expected that a crowd of
gentlemen under the influence of feelings like these would act with
the cold impartiality of a court of justice. Before they came to any
decision on the legal question which Titus had brought before them,
they picked a succession of quarrels with him. He had published a paper
magnifying his merits and his sufferings. The Lords found out some
pretence for calling this publication a breach of privilege, and sent
him to the Marshalsea. He petitioned to be released; but an objection
was raised to his petition. He had described himself as a Doctor of
Divinity; and their lordships refused to acknowledge him as such. He was
brought to their bar, and asked where he had graduated. He answered, "At
the university of Salamanca." This was no new instance of his mendacity
and effrontery. His Salamanca degree had been, during many years, a
favourite theme of all the Tory satirists from Dryden downwards; and
even on the Continent the Salamanca Doctor was a nickname in ordinary
use, [394] The Lords, in their hatred of Oates, so far forgot their own
dignity as to treat this ridiculous matter seriously. They ordered him
to efface from his petition the words, "Doctor of Divinity." He replied
that he could not in conscience do it; and he was accordingly sent back
to gaol, [395]
These preliminary proceedings indicated not obscurely what the fate of
the writ of error would be. The counsel for Oates had been heard. No
counsel appeared against him. The judges were required to give their
opinions. Nine of them were in attendance; and among the nine were the
Chiefs of the three Courts of Common Law. The unanimous answer of these
grave, learned and upright magistrates was that the Court of King's
Bench was not competent to degrade a priest from his sacred office, or
to pass a sentence of perpetual imprisonment; and that therefore the
judgment against Oates was contrary to law, and ought to be reversed.
The Lords should undoubtedly have considered themselves as bound by this
opinion. That they knew Oates to be the worst of men was nothing to the
purpose. To them, sitting as a court of justice, he ought to have been
merely a John of Styles or a John of Nokes. But their indignation was
violently excited. Their habits were not those which fit men for the
discharge of judicial duties. The debate turned almost entirely on
matters to which no allusion ought to have been made. Not a single peer
ventured to affirm that the judgment was legal: but much was said about
the odious character of the appellant, about the impudent accusation
which he had brought against Catherine of Braganza, and about the evil
consequences which might follow if so bad a man were capable of being a
witness. "There is only one way," said the Lord President, "in which I
can consent to reverse the fellow's sentence. He has been whipped from
Aldgate to Tyburn. He ought to be whipped from Tyburn back to Aldgate."
The question was put. Twenty-three peers voted for reversing the
judgment; thirty-five for affirming it, [396]
This decision produced a great sensation, and not without reason. A
question was now raised which might justly excite the anxiety of every
man in the kingdom. That question was whether the highest tribunal,
the tribunal on which, in the last resort, depended the most precious
interests of every English subject, was at liberty to decide judicial
questions on other than judicial grounds, and to withhold from a suitor
what was admitted to be his legal right, on account of the depravity of
his moral character. That the supreme Court of Appeal ought not to
be suffered to exercise arbitrary power, under the forms of ordinary
justice, was strongly felt by the ablest men in the House of Commons,
and by none more strongly than by Somers. With him, and with those
who reasoned like him, were, on this occasion, allied many weak and
hot-headed zealots who still regarded Oates as a public benefactor, and
who imagined that to question the existence of the Popish plot was to
question the truth of the Protestant religion. On the very morning after
the decision of the Peers had been pronounced, keen reflections were
thrown, in the House of Commons, on the justice of their lordships.
Three days later, the subject was brought forward by a Whig Privy
Councillor, Sir Robert Howard, member for Castle Rising. He was one of
the Berkshire branch of his noble family, a branch which enjoyed, in
that age, the unenviable distinction of being wonderfully fertile of
bad rhymers. The poetry of the Berkshire Howards was the jest of three
generations of satirists. The mirth began with the first representation
of the Rehearsal, and continued down to the last edition of the Dunciad,
[397] But Sir Robert, in spite of his bad verses, and of some foibles
and vanities which had caused him to be brought on the stage under the
name of Sir Positive Atall, had in parliament the weight which a stanch
party man, of ample fortune, of illustrious name, of ready utterance,
and of resolute spirit, can scarcely fail to possess, [398] When he rose
to call the attention of the Commons to the case of Oates, some Tories,
animated by the same passions which had prevailed in the other House,
received him with loud hisses. In spite of this most unparliamentary
insult, he persevered; and it soon appeared that the majority was with
him. Some orators extolled the patriotism and courage of Oates: others
dwelt much on a prevailing rumour, that the solicitors who were employed
against him on behalf of the Crown had distributed large sums of money
among the jurymen. These were topics on which there was much difference
of opinion. But that the sentence was illegal was a proposition which
admitted of no dispute. The most eminent lawyers in the House of Commons
declared that, on this point, they entirely concurred in the opinion
given by the judges in the House of Lords. Those who had hissed when
the subject was introduced, were so effectually cowed that they did
not venture to demand a division; and a bill annulling the sentence was
brought in, without any opposition, [399]
The Lords were in an embarrassing situation. To retract was not
pleasant. To engage in a contest with the Lower House, on a question on
which that House was clearly in the right, and was backed at once by the
opinions of the sages of the law, and by the passions of the populace,
might be dangerous. It was thought expedient to take a middle course. An
address was presented to the King, requesting him to pardon Oates, [400]
But this concession only made bad worse. Titus had, like every other
human being, a right to justice: but he was not a proper object of
mercy. If the judgment against him was illegal, it ought to have been
reversed. If it was legal, there was no ground for remitting any part of
it. The Commons, very properly, persisted, passed their bill, and sent
it up to the Peers. Of this bill the only objectionable part was the
preamble, which asserted, not only that the judgment was illegal, a
proposition which appeared on the face of the record to be true, but
also that the verdict was corrupt, a proposition which, whether true or
false, was not proved by any evidence at all.
The Lords were in a great strait. They knew that they were in the wrong.
Yet they were determined not to proclaim, in their legislative capacity,
that they had, in their judicial capacity, been guilty of injustice.
They again tried a middle course. The preamble was softened down: a
clause was added which provided that Oates should still remain incapable
of being a witness; and the bill thus altered was returned to the
Commons.
The Commons were not satisfied. They rejected the amendments,
and demanded a free conference. Two eminent Tories, Rochester and
Nottingham, took their seats in the Painted Chamber as managers for the
Lords. With them was joined Burnet, whose well known hatred of Popery
was likely to give weight to what he might say on such an occasion.
Somers was the chief orator on the other side; and to his pen we owe a
singularly lucid and interesting abstract of the debate.
The Lords frankly owned that the judgment of the Court of King's Bench
could not be defended. They knew it to be illegal, and had known it to
be so even when they affirmed it. But they had acted for the best. They
accused Oates of bringing an impudently false accusation against Queen
Catherine: they mentioned other instances of his villany; and they asked
whether such a man ought still to be capable of giving testimony in a
court of justice. The only excuse which, in their opinion, could be made
for him was, that he was insane; and in truth, the incredible insolence
and absurdity of his behaviour when he was last before them seemed to
warrant the belief that his brain had been turned, and that he was not
to be trusted with the lives of other men. The Lords could not therefore
degrade themselves by expressly rescinding what they had done; nor could
they consent to pronounce the verdict corrupt on no better evidence than
common report.
The reply was complete and triumphant. "Oates is now the smallest part
of the question. He has, Your Lordships say, falsely accused the Queen
Dowager and other innocent persons. Be it so. This bill gives him no
indemnity. We are quite willing that, if he is guilty, he shall be
punished. But for him, and for all Englishmen, we demand that punishment
shall be regulated by law, and not by the arbitrary discretion of any
tribunal. We demand that, when a writ of error is before Your Lordships,
you shall give judgment on it according to the known customs and
statutes of the realm. We deny that you have any right, on such
occasions, to take into consideration the moral character of a plaintiff
or the political effect of a decision. It is acknowledged by yourselves
that you have, merely because you thought ill of this man, affirmed
a judgment which you knew to be illegal. Against this assumption of
arbitrary power the Commons protest; and they hope that you will now
redeem what you must feel to be an error. Your Lordships intimate a
suspicion that Oates is mad. That a man is mad may be a very good reason
for not punishing him at all. But how it can be a reason for inflicting
on him a punishment which would be illegal even if he were sane, the
Commons do not comprehend. Your Lordships think that you should not be
justified in calling a verdict corrupt which has not been legally proved
to be so. Suffer us to remind you that you have two distinct functions
to perform. You are judges; and you are legislators. When you judge,
your duty is strictly to follow the law. When you legislate, you may
properly take facts from common fame. You invert this rule. You are lax
in the wrong place, and scrupulous in the wrong place. As judges,
you break through the law for the sake of a supposed convenience. As
legislators, you will not admit any fact without such technical proof as
it is rarely possible for legislators to obtain." [401]
This reasoning was not and could not be answered. The Commons were
evidently flushed with their victory in the argument, and proud of
the appearance which Somers had made in the Painted Chamber. They
particularly charged him to see that the report which he had made of the
conference was accurately entered in the journals. The Lords very wisely
abstained from inserting in their records an account of a debate in
which they had been so signally discomfited. But, though conscious of
their fault and ashamed of it, they could not be brought to do public
penance by owning, in the preamble of the Act, that they had been guilty
of injustice. The minority was, however, strong. The resolution to
adhere was carried by only twelve votes, of which ten were proxies,
[402]
Twenty-one Peers protested. The bill dropped. Two Masters in Chancery
were sent to announce to the Commons the final resolution of the Peers.
The Commons thought this proceeding unjustifiable in substance and
uncourteous in form. They determined to remonstrate; and Somers drew
up an excellent manifesto, in which the vile name of Oates was scarcely
mentioned, and in which the Upper House was with great earnestness and
gravity exhorted to treat judicial questions judicially, and not, under
pretence of administering law, to make law, [403] The wretched man,
who had now a second time thrown the political world into confusion,
received a pardon, and was set at liberty. His friends in the Lower
House moved an address to the Throne, requesting that a pension
sufficient for his support might be granted to him, [404] He was
consequently allowed about three hundred a year, a sum which he thought
unworthy of his acceptance, and which he took with the savage snarl of
disappointed greediness.
From the dispute about Oates sprang another dispute, which might have
produced very serious consequences. The instrument which had declared
William and Mary King and Queen was a revolutionary instrument. It had
been drawn up by an assembly unknown to the ordinary law, and had never
received the royal sanction. It was evidently desirable that this great
contract between the governors and the governed, this titledeed by which
the King held his throne and the people their liberties, should be put
into a strictly regular form. The Declaration of Rights was therefore
turned into a Bill of Rights; and the Bill of Rights speedily passed the
Commons; but in the Lords difficulties arose.
The Declaration had settled the crown, first on William and Mary
jointly, then on the survivor of the two, then on Mary's posterity, then
on Anne and her posterity, and, lastly, on the posterity of William by
any other wife than Mary. The Bill had been drawn in exact conformity
with the Declaration. Who was to succeed if Mary, Anne, and William
should all die without posterity, was left in uncertainty. Yet the
event for which no provision was made was far from improbable. Indeed it
really came to pass. William had never had a child. Anne had repeatedly
been a mother, but had no child living. It would not be very strange if,
in a few months, disease, war, or treason should remove all those who
stood in the entail. In what state would the country then be left? To
whom would allegiance be due? The bill indeed contained a clause which
excluded Papists from the throne. But would such a clause supply the
place of a clause designating the successor by name? What if the next
heir should be a prince of the House of Savoy not three months old?
It would be absurd to call such an infant a Papist. Was he then to be
proclaimed King? Or was the crown to be in abeyance till he came to an
age at which he might be capable of choosing a religion? Might not the
most honest and the most intelligent men be in doubt whether they ought
to regard him as their Sovereign? And to whom could they look for
a solution of this doubt? Parliament there would be none: for the
Parliament would expire with the prince who had convoked it. There
would be mere anarchy, anarchy which might end in the destruction of
the monarchy, or in the destruction of public liberty. For these weighty
reasons, Barnet, at William's suggestion, proposed it the House of Lords
that the crown should, failing heirs of His Majesty's body, be entailed
on an undoubted Protestant, Sophia, Duchess of Brunswick Lunenburg,
granddaughter of James the First, and daughter of Elizabeth, Queen of
Bohemia.
The Lords unanimously assented to this amendment: but the Commons
unanimously rejected it. The cause of the rejection no contemporary
writer has satisfactorily explained. One Whig historian talks of the
machinations of the republicans, another of the machinations of
the Jacobites. But it is quite certain that four fifths of the
representatives of the people were neither Jacobites nor republicans.
Yet not a single voice was raised in the Lower House in favour of the
clause which in the Upper House had been carried by acclamation, [405]
The most probable explanation seems to be that the gross injustice which
had been committed in the case of Oates had irritated the Commons to
such a degree that they were glad of an opportunity to quarrel with the
Peers. A conference was held. Neither assembly would give way. While
the dispute was hottest, an event took place which, it might have been
thought, would have restored harmony. Anne gave birth to a son. The
child was baptized at Hampton Court with great pomp, and with many
signs of public joy. William was one of the sponsors. The other was the
accomplished Dorset, whose roof had given shelter to the Princess in her
distress. The King bestowed his own name on his godson, and announced
to the splendid circle assembled around the font that the little William
was henceforth to be called Duke of Gloucester, [406] The birth of
this child had greatly diminished the risk against which the Lords had
thought it necessary to guard. They might therefore have retracted with
a good grace. But their pride had been wounded by the severity with
which their decision on Oates's writ of error had been censured in the
Painted Chamber. They had been plainly told across the table that they
were unjust judges; and the imputation was not the less irritating
because they were conscious that it was deserved. They refused to make
any concession; and the Bill of Rights was suffered to drop, [407]
But the most exciting question of this long and stormy session was, what
punishment should be inflicted on those men who had, during the interval
between the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament and the Revolution,
been the advisers or the tools of Charles and James. It was happy for
England that, at this crisis, a prince who belonged to neither of
her factions, who loved neither, who hated neither, and who, for the
accomplishment of a great design, wished to make use of both, was the
moderator between them.
The two parties were now in a position closely resembling that in which
they had been twenty-eight years before. The party indeed which had then
been undermost was now uppermost: but the analogy between the situations
is one of the most perfect that can be found in history. Both the
Restoration and the Revolution was accomplished by coalitions. At the
Restoration, those politicians who were peculiarly zealous for liberty
assisted to reestablish monarchy: at the Revolution those politicians
who were peculiarly zealous for monarchy assisted to vindicate liberty.
The Cavalier would, at the former conjuncture, have been able to effect
nothing without the help of Puritans who had fought for the Covenant;
nor would the Whig, at the latter conjuncture, have offered a successful
resistance to arbitrary power, had he not been backed by men who had
a very short time before condemned resistance to arbitrary power as a
deadly sin. Conspicuous among those by whom, in 1660, the royal family
was brought back, were Hopis, who had in the days of the tyranny of
Charles the First held down the Speaker in the chair by main force,
while Black Rod knocked for admission in vain; Ingoldsby, whose name was
subscribed to the memorable death warrant; and Prynne, whose ears Laud
had cut off, and who, in return, had borne the chief part in cutting
off Laud's head. Among the seven who, in 1688, signed the invitation to
William, were Compton, who had long enforced the duty of obeying Nero;
Danby, who had been impeached for endeavouring to establish military
despotism; and Lumley, whose bloodhounds had tracked Monmouth to that
sad last hiding place among the fern. Both in 1660 and in 1688, while
the fate of the nation still hung in the balance, forgiveness
was exchanged between the hostile factions. On both occasions the
reconciliation, which had seemed to be cordial in the hour of danger,
proved false and hollow in the hour of triumph. As soon as Charles the
Second was at Whitehall, the Cavalier forgot the good service recently
done by the Presbyterians, and remembered only their old offences.
As soon as William was King, too many of the Whigs began to demand
vengeance for all that they had, in the days of the Rye House Plot,
suffered at the hands of the Tories. On both occasions the Sovereign
found it difficult to save the vanquished party from the fury of
his triumphant supporters; and on both occasions those whom he had
disappointed of their revenge murmured bitterly against the government
which had been so weak and ungrateful as to protect its foes against its
friends.
So early as the twenty-fifth of March, William called the attention of
the Commons to the expediency of quieting the public mind by an amnesty.
He expressed his hope that a bill of general pardon and oblivion would
be as speedily as possible presented for his sanction, and that no
exceptions would be made, except such as were absolutely necessary for
the vindication of public justice and for the safety of the state.
The Commons unanimously agreed to thank him for this instance of his
paternal kindness: but they suffered many weeks to pass without taking
any step towards the accomplishment of his wish. When at length the
subject was resumed, it was resumed in such a manner as plainly showed
that the majority had no real intention of putting an end to the
suspense which embittered the lives of all those Tories who were
conscious that, in their zeal for prerogative, they had some times
overstepped the exact line traced by law. Twelve categories were framed,
some of which were so extensive as to include tens of thousands of
delinquents; and the House resolved that, under every one of these
categories, some exceptions should be made. Then came the examination
into the cases of individuals. Numerous culprits and witnesses were
summoned to the bar. The debates were long and sharp; and it soon became
evident that the work was interminable. The summer glided away: the
autumn was approaching: the session could not last much longer; and
of the twelve distinct inquisitions, which the Commons had resolved to
institute, only three had been brought to a close. It was necessary to
let the bill drop for that year, [408]
Among the many offenders whose names were mentioned in the course of
these inquiries, was one who stood alone and unapproached in guilt and
infamy, and whom Whigs and Tories were equally willing to leave to the
extreme rigour of the law. On that terrible day which was succeeded by
the Irish Night, the roar of a great city disappointed of its revenge
had followed Jeffreys to the drawbridge of the Tower. His imprisonment
was not strictly legal: but he at first accepted with thanks and
blessings the protection which those dark walls, made famous by so many
crimes and sorrows, afforded him against the fury of the multitude,
[409] Soon, however, he became sensible that his life was still in
imminent peril. For a time he flattered himself with the hope that a
writ of Habeas Corpus would liberate him from his confinement, and that
he should be able to steal away to some foreign country, and to hide
himself with part of his ill gotten wealth from the detestation of
mankind: but, till the government was settled, there was no Court
competent to grant a writ of Habeas Corpus; and, as soon as the
government had been settled, the Habeas Corpus Act was suspended, [410]
Whether the legal guilt of murder could be brought home to Jeffreys may
be doubted. But he was morally guilty of so many murders that, if there
had been no other way of reaching his life, a retrospective Act of
Attainder would have been clamorously demanded by the whole nation.
A disposition to triumph over the fallen has never been one of the
besetting sins of Englishmen: but the hatred of which Jeffreys was
the object was without a parallel in our history, and partook but too
largely of the savageness of his own nature. The people, where he was
concerned, were as cruel as himself, and exulted in his misery as he
had been accustomed to exult in the misery of convicts listening to
the sentence of death, and of families clad in mourning. The rabble
congregated before his deserted mansion in Duke Street, and read on the
door, with shouts of laughter, the bills which announced the sale of
his property. Even delicate women, who had tears for highwaymen and
housebreakers, breathed nothing but vengeance against him. The lampoons
on him which were hawked about the town were distinguished by an
atrocity rare even in those days. Hanging would be too mild a death for
him: a grave under the gibbet too respectable a resting place: he ought
to be whipped to death at the cart's tail: he ought to be tortured like
an Indian: he ought to be devoured alive. The street poets portioned out
all his joints with cannibal ferocity, and computed how many pounds of
steaks might be cut from his well fattened carcass. Nay, the rage of
his enemies was such that, in language seldom heard in England, they
proclaimed their wish that he might go to the place of wailing and
gnashing of teeth, to the worm that never dies, to the fire that is
never quenched. They exhorted him to hang himself in his garters, and
to cut his throat with his razor. They put up horrible prayers that he
might not be able to repent, that he might die the same hardhearted,
wicked Jeffreys that he had lived, [411] His spirit, as mean in
adversity as insolent and inhuman in prosperity, sank down under the
load of public abhorrence. His constitution, originally bad, and much
impaired by intemperance, was completely broken by distress and anxiety.
He was tormented by a cruel internal disease, which the most skilful
surgeons of that age were seldom able to relieve. One solace was left to
him, brandy. Even when he had causes to try and councils to attend, he
had seldom gone to bed sober. Now, when he had nothing to occupy his
mind save terrible recollections and terrible forebodings, he abandoned
himself without reserve to his favourite vice. Many believed him to be
bent on shortening his life by excess. He thought it better, they said,
to go off in a drunken fit than to be hacked by Ketch, or torn limb from
limb by the populace.
Once he was roused from a state of abject despondency by an agreeable
sensation, speedily followed by a mortifying disappointment. A parcel
had been left for him at the Tower. It appeared to be a barrel of
Colchester oysters, his favourite dainties. He was greatly moved: for
there are moments when those who least deserve affection are pleased
to think that they inspire it. "Thank God," he exclaimed, "I have still
some friends left." He opened the barrel; and from among a heap of
shells out tumbled a stout halter, [412]
It does not appear that one of the flatterers or buffoons whom he had
enriched out of the plunder of his victims came to comfort him in the
day of trouble. But he was not left in utter solitude. John Tutchin,
whom he had sentenced to be flogged every fortnight for seven years,
made his way into the Tower, and presented himself before the fallen
oppressor. Poor Jeffreys, humbled to the dust, behaved with abject
civility, and called for wine. "I am glad, sir," he said, "to see you."
"And I am glad," answered the resentful Whig, "to see Your Lordship
in this place." "I served my master," said Jeffreys: "I was bound in
conscience to do so." "Where was your conscience," said Tutchin, "when
you passed that sentence on me at Dorchester?" "It was set down in my
instructions," answered Jeffreys, fawningly, "that I was to show no
mercy to men like you, men of parts and courage. When I went back to
court I was reprimanded for my lenity." [413] Even Tutchin, acrimonious
as was his nature, and great as were his wrongs, seems to have been
a little mollified by the pitiable spectacle which he had at first
contemplated with vindictive pleasure. He always denied the truth of
the report that he was the person who sent the Colchester barrel to the
Tower.
A more benevolent man, John Sharp, the excellent Dean of Norwich, forced
himself to visit the prisoner. It was a painful task: but Sharp had been
treated by Jeffreys, in old times, as kindly as it was in the nature
of Jeffreys to treat any body, and had once or twice been able, by
patiently waiting till the storm of curses and invectives had spent
itself, and by dexterously seizing the moment of good humour, to obtain
for unhappy families some mitigation of their sufferings. The prisoner
was surprised and pleased. "What," he said, "dare you own me now?" It was
in vain, however, that the amiable divine tried to give salutary pain
to that seared conscience. Jeffreys, instead of acknowledging his guilt,
exclaimed vehemently against the injustice of mankind. "People call me
a murderer for doing what at the time was applauded by some who are now
high in public favour. They call me a drunkard because I take punch to
relieve me in my agony." He would not admit that, as President of the
High Commission, he had done any thing that deserved reproach. His
colleagues, he said, were the real criminals; and now they threw all
the blame on him. He spoke with peculiar asperity of Sprat, who had
undoubtedly been the most humane and moderate member of the board.
It soon became clear that the wicked judge was fast sinking under the
weight of bodily and mental suffering. Doctor John Scott, prebendary of
Saint Paul's, a clergyman of great sanctity, and author of the Christian
Life, a treatise once widely renowned, was summoned, probably on the
recommendation of his intimate friend Sharp, to the bedside of the dying
man. It was in vain, however, that Scott spoke, as Sharp had already
spoken, of the hideous butcheries of Dorchester and Taunton. To the last
Jeffreys continued to repeat that those who thought him cruel did not
know what his orders were, that he deserved praise instead of blame,
and that his clemency had drawn on him the extreme displeasure of his
master, [414]
Disease, assisted by strong drink and by misery, did its work fast. The
patient's stomach rejected all nourishment. He dwindled in a few weeks
from a portly and even corpulent man to a skeleton. On the eighteenth
of April he died, in the forty-first year of his age. He had been Chief
Justice of the King's Bench at thirty-five, and Lord Chancellor at
thirty-seven. In the whole history of the English bar there is no
other instance of so rapid an elevation, or of so terrible a fall.
The emaciated corpse was laid, with all privacy, next to the corpse of
Monmouth in the chapel of the Tower, [415]
The fall of this man, once so great and so much dreaded, the horror with
which he was regarded by all the respectable members of his own
party, the manner in which the least respectable members of that party
renounced fellowship with him in his distress, and threw on him the
whole blame of crimes which they had encouraged him to commit, ought
to have been a lesson to those intemperate friends of liberty who were
clamouring for a new proscription. But it was a lesson which too many of
them disregarded. The King had, at the very commencement of his reign,
displeased them by appointing a few Tories and Trimmers to high offices;
and the discontent excited by these appointments had been inflamed by
his attempt to obtain a general amnesty for the vanquished. He was
in truth not a man to be popular with the vindictive zealots of any
faction. For among his peculiarities was a certain ungracious humanity
which rarely conciliated his foes, which often provoked his adherents,
but in which he doggedly persisted, without troubling himself either
about the thanklessness of those whom he had saved from destruction, or
about the rage of those whom he had disappointed of their revenge. Some
of the Whigs now spoke of him as bitterly as they had ever spoken of
either of his uncles. He was a Stuart after all, and was not a Stuart
for nothing. Like the rest of the race, he loved arbitrary power.
In Holland, he had succeeded in making himself, under the forms of a
republican polity, scarcely less absolute than the old hereditary Counts
had been. In consequence of a strange combination of circumstances, his
interest had, during a short time, coincided with the interest of the
English people: but though he had been a deliverer by accident, he was
a despot by nature. He had no sympathy with the just resentments of the
Whigs. He had objects in view which the Whigs would not willingly suffer
any Sovereign to attain. He knew that the Tories were the only tools for
his purpose. He had therefore, from the moment at which he took his seat
on the throne, favoured them unduly. He was now trying to procure an
indemnity for those very delinquents whom he had, a few months before,
described in his Declaration as deserving of exemplary punishment. In
November he had told the world that the crimes in which these men had
borne a part had made it the duty of subjects to violate their oath of
allegiance, of soldiers to desert their standards, of children to make
war on their parents. With what consistency then could he recommend that
such crimes should be covered by a general oblivion? And was there not
too much reason to fear that he wished to save the agents of tyranny
from the fate which they merited, in the hope that, at some future time,
they might serve him as unscrupulously as they had served his father in
law? [416]
Of the members of the House of Commons who were animated by these
feelings, the fiercest and most audacious was Howe. He went so far on
one occasion as to move that an inquiry should be instituted into the
proceedings of the Parliament of 1685, and that some note of infamy
should be put on all who, in that Parliament, had voted with the Court.
This absurd and mischievous motion was discountenanced by all the most
respectable Whigs, and strongly opposed by Birch and Maynard, [417] Howe
was forced to give way: but he was a man whom no check could abash;
and he was encouraged by the applause of many hotheaded members of his
party, who were far from foreseeing that he would, after having been the
most rancorous and unprincipled of Whigs, become, at no distant time,
the most rancorous and unprincipled of Tories.
This quickwitted, restless and malignant politician, though himself
occupying a lucrative place in the royal household, declaimed, day after
day, against the manner in which the great offices of state were filled;
and his declamations were echoed, in tones somewhat less sharp and
vehement, by other orators. No man, they said, who had been a minister
of Charles or of James ought to be a minister of William. The first
attack was directed against the Lord President Caermarthen. Howe moved
that an address should be presented to the King, requesting that all
persons who had ever been impeached by the Commons might be dismissed
from His Majesty's counsels and presence. The debate on this motion was
repeatedly adjourned. While the event was doubtful, William sent Dykvelt
to expostulate with Howe. Howe was obdurate. He was what is vulgarly
called a disinterested man; that is to say, he valued money less than
the pleasure of venting his spleen and of making a sensation. "I am
doing the King a service," he said: "I am rescuing him from false
friends: and, as to my place, that shall never be a gag to prevent me
from speaking my mind." The motion was made, but completely failed.
In truth the proposition, that mere accusation, never prosecuted to
conviction, ought to be considered as a decisive proof of guilt, was
shocking to natural justice. The faults of Caermarthen had doubtless
been great; but they had been exaggerated by party spirit, had been
expiated by severe suffering, and had been redeemed by recent and
eminent services. At the time when he raised the great county of York in
arms against Popery and tyranny, he had been assured by some of the
most eminent Whigs that all old quarrels were forgotten. Howe indeed
maintained that the civilities which had passed in the moment of peril
signified nothing. "When a viper is on my hand," he said, "I am very
tender of him; but, as soon as I have him on the ground, I set my foot
on him and crush him." The Lord President, however, was so strongly
supported that, after a discussion which lasted three days, his enemies
did not venture to take the sense of the House on the motion against
him. In the course of the debate a grave constitutional question was
incidentally raised. This question was whether a pardon could be pleaded
in bar of a parliamentary impeachment. The Commons resolved, without a
division, that a pardon could not be so pleaded, [418]
The next attack was made on Halifax. He was in a much more invidious
position than Caermarthen, who had, under pretence of ill health,
withdrawn himself almost entirely from business. Halifax was generally
regarded as the chief adviser of the Crown, and was in an especial
manner held responsible for all the faults which had been committed with
respect to Ireland. The evils which had brought that kingdom to ruin
might, it was said, have been averted by timely precaution, or remedied
by vigorous exertion. But the government had foreseen nothing: it had
done little; and that little had been done neither at the right time nor
in the right way. Negotiation had been employed instead of troops, when
a few troops might have sufficed. A few troops had been sent when many
were needed. The troops that had been sent had been ill equipped and ill
commanded. Such, the vehement Whigs exclaimed, were the natural fruits
of that great error which King William had committed on the first day of
his reign. He had placed in Tories and Trimmers a confidence which they
did not deserve. He had, in a peculiar manner, entrusted the direction
of Irish affairs to the Trimmer of Trimmers, to a man whose ability
nobody disputed, but who was not firmly attached to the new government,
who, indeed, was incapable of being firmly attached to any government,
who had always halted between two opinions, and who, till the moment of
the flight of James, had not given up the hope that the discontents of
the nation might be quieted without a change of dynasty. Howe, on twenty
occasions, designated Halifax as the cause of all the calamities of the
country. Monmouth held similar language in the House of Lords. Though
First Lord of the Treasury, he paid no attention to financial business,
for which he was altogether unfit, and of which he had very soon become
weary. His whole heart was in the work of persecuting the Tories.
He plainly told the King that nobody who was not a Whig ought to
be employed in the public service. William's answer was cool and
determined. "I have done as much for your friends as I can do without
danger to the state; and I will do no more," [419] The only effect of
this reprimand was to make Monmouth more factious than ever. Against
Halifax especially he intrigued and harangued with indefatigable
animosity. The other Whig Lords of the Treasury, Delamere and Capel,
were scarcely less eager to drive the Lord Privy Seal from office; and
personal jealousy and antipathy impelled the Lord President to conspire
with his own accusers against his rival.
What foundation there may have been for the imputations thrown at this
time on Halifax cannot now be fully ascertained. His enemies, though
they interrogated numerous witnesses, and though they obtained William's
reluctant permission to inspect the minutes of the Privy Council, could
find no evidence which would support a definite charge, [420] But it was
undeniable that the Lord Privy Seal had acted as minister for Ireland,
and that Ireland was all but lost. It is unnecessary, and indeed
absurd, to suppose, as many Whigs supposed, that his administration
was unsuccessful because he did not wish it to be successful. The truth
seems to be that the difficulties of the situation were great, and that
he, with all his ingenuity and eloquence, was ill qualified to cope with
those difficulties. The whole machinery of government was out of joint;
and he was not the man to set it right. What was wanted was not what he
had in large measure, wit, taste, amplitude of comprehension, subtlety
in drawing distinctions; but what he had not, prompt decision,
indefatigable energy, and stubborn resolution. His mind was at best
of too soft a temper for such work as he had now to do, and had been
recently made softer by severe affliction. He had lost two sons in less
than twelve months. A letter is still extant, in which he at this time
complained to his honoured friend Lady Russell of the desolation of his
hearth and of the cruel ingratitude of the Whigs. We possess, also, the
answer, in which she gently exhorted him to seek for consolation where
she had found it under trials not less severe than his, [421]
The first attack on him was made in the Upper House. Some Whig Lords,
among whom the wayward and petulant First Lord of the Treasury was
conspicuous, proposed that the King should be requested to appoint a new
Speaker. The friends of Halifax moved and carried the previous question,
[422] About three weeks later his persecutors moved, in a Committee
of the whole House of Commons, a resolution which imputed to him
no particular crime either of omission or of commission, but simply
declared it to be advisable that he should be dismissed from the service
of the Crown. The debate was warm. Moderate politicians of both parties
were unwilling to put a stigma on a man, not indeed faultless, but
distinguished both by his abilities and by his amiable qualities. His
accusers saw that they could not carry their point, and tried to escape
from a decision which was certain to be adverse to them, by proposing
that the Chairman should report progress. But their tactics were
disconcerted by the judicious and spirited conduct of Lord Eland, now
the Marquess's only son. "My father has not deserved," said the young
nobleman, "to be thus trifled with. If you think him culpable, say so.
He will at once submit to your verdict. Dismission from Court has
no terrors for him. He is raised, by the goodness of God, above the
necessity of looking to office for the means of supporting his rank."
The Committee divided, and Halifax was absolved by a majority of
fourteen, [423]
Had the division been postponed a few hours, the majority would probably
have been much greater. The Commons voted under the impression that
Londonderry had fallen, and that all Ireland was lost. Scarcely had the
House risen when a courier arrived with news that the boom on the Foyle
had been broken. He was speedily followed by a second, who announced
the raising of the siege, and by a third who brought the tidings of the
battle of Newton Butler. Hope and exultation succeeded to discontent
and dismay, [424] Ulster was safe; and it was confidently expected that
Schomberg would speedily reconquer Leinster, Connaught, and Munster. He
was now ready to set out. The port of Chester was the place from which
he was to take his departure. The army which he was to command had
assembled there; and the Dee was crowded with men of war and transports.
Unfortunately almost all those English soldiers who had seen war had
been sent to Flanders. The bulk of the force destined for Ireland
consisted of men just taken from the plough and the threshing floor.
There was, however, an excellent brigade of Dutch troops under the
command of an experienced officer, the Count of Solmes. Four regiments,
one of cavalry and three of infantry, had been formed out of the French
refugees, many of whom had borne arms with credit. No person did more to
promote the raising of these regiments than the Marquess of Ruvigny. He
had been during many years an eminently faithful and useful servant of
the French government. So highly was his merit appreciated at Versailles
that he had been solicited to accept indulgences which scarcely any
other heretic could by any solicitation obtain. Had he chosen to remain
in his native country, he and his household would have been permitted to
worship God privately according to their own forms. But Ruvigny rejected
all offers, cast in his lot with his brethren, and, at upwards of eighty
years of age, quitted Versailles, where he might still have been a
favourite, for a modest dwelling at Greenwich. That dwelling was,
during the last months of his life, the resort of all that was most
distinguished among his fellow exiles. His abilities, his experience and
his munificent kindness, made him the undisputed chief of the refugees.
He was at the same time half an Englishman: for his sister had been
Countess of Southampton, and he was uncle of Lady Russell. He was long
past the time of action. But his two sons, both men of eminent courage,
devoted their swords to the service of William. The younger son,
who bore the name of Caillemote, was appointed colonel of one of
the Huguenot regiments of foot. The two other regiments of foot were
commanded by La Melloniere and Cambon, officers of high reputation. The
regiment of horse was raised by Schomberg himself, and bore his name.
Ruvigny lived just long enough to see these arrangements complete, [425]
The general to whom the direction of the expedition against Ireland was
confided had wonderfully succeeded in obtaining the affection and esteem
of the English nation. He had been made a Duke, a Knight of the Garter,
and Master of the Ordnance: he was now placed at the head of an army:
and yet his elevation excited none of that jealousy which showed itself
as often as any mark of royal favour was bestowed on Bentinck,
on Zulestein, or on Auverquerque. Schomberg's military skill was
universally acknowledged. He was regarded by all Protestants as a
confessor who had endured every thing short of martyrdom for the truth.
For his religion he had resigned a splendid income, had laid down the
truncheon of a Marshal of France, and had, at near eighty years of
age, begun the world again as a needy soldier of fortune. As he had
no connection with the United Provinces, and had never belonged to the
little Court of the Hague, the preference given to him over English
captains was justly ascribed, not to national or personal partiality,
but to his virtues and his abilities. His deportment differed widely
from that of the other foreigners who had just been created English
peers. They, with many respectable qualities, were, in tastes, manners,
and predilections, Dutchmen, and could not catch the tone of the society
to which they had been transferred. He was a citizen of the world, had
travelled over all Europe, had commanded armies on the Meuse, on the
Ebro, and on the Tagus, had shone in the splendid circle of Versailles,
and had been in high favour at the court of Berlin. He had often been
taken by French noblemen for a French nobleman. He had passed some time
in England, spoke English remarkably well, accommodated himself easily
to English manners, and was often seen walking in the park with English
companions. In youth his habits had been temperate; and his temperance
had its proper reward, a singularly green and vigorous old age. At
fourscore he retained a strong relish for innocent pleasures: he
conversed with great courtesy and sprightliness: nothing could be in
better taste than his equipages and his table; and every cornet of
cavalry envied the grace and dignity with which the veteran appeared in
Hyde Park on his charger at the head of his regiment, [426] The House
of Commons had, with general approbation, compensated his losses and
rewarded his services by a grant of a hundred thousand pounds. Before
he set out for Ireland, he requested permission to express his gratitude
for this magnificent present. A chair was set for him within the bar. He
took his seat there with the mace at his right hand, rose, and in a
few graceful words returned his thanks and took his leave. The Speaker
replied that the Commons could never forget the obligation under which
they already lay to His Grace, that they saw him with pleasure at the
head of an English army, that they felt entire confidence in his zeal
and ability, and that, at whatever distance he might be, he would always
be in a peculiar manner an object of their care. The precedent set on
this interesting occasion was followed with the utmost minuteness, a
hundred and twenty-five years later, on an occasion more interesting
still. Exactly on the same spot on which, in July 1689, Schomberg had
acknowledged the liberality of the nation, a chair was set, in July
1814, for a still more illustrious warrior, who came to return
thanks for a still more splendid mark of public gratitude. Few things
illustrate more strikingly the peculiar character of the English
government and people than the circumstance that the House of Commons,
a popular assembly, should, even in a moment of joyous enthusiasm, have
adhered to ancient forms with the punctilious accuracy of a College of
Heralds; that the sitting and rising, the covering and the uncovering,
should have been regulated by exactly the same etiquette in the
nineteenth century as in the seventeenth; and that the same mace which
had been held at the right hand of Schomberg should have been held in
the same position at the right hand of Wellington, [427]
On the twentieth of August the Parliament, having been constantly
engaged in business during seven months, broke up, by the royal command,
for a short recess. The same Gazette which announced that the Houses had
ceased to sit announced that Schomberg had landed in Ireland, [428]
During the three weeks which preceded his landing, the dismay and
confusion at Dublin Castle had been extreme. Disaster had followed
disaster so fast that the mind of James, never very firm, had been
completely prostrated. He had learned first that Londonderry had
been relieved; then that one of his armies had been beaten by the
Enniskilleners; then that another of his armies was retreating, or
rather flying, from Ulster, reduced in numbers and broken in spirit;
then that Sligo, the key of Connaught, had been abandoned to the
Englishry. He had found it impossible to subdue the colonists, even when
they were left almost unaided. He might therefore well doubt whether it
would be possible for him to contend against them when they were backed
by an English army, under the command of the greatest general living.
The unhappy prince seemed, during some days, to be sunk in despondency.
On Avaux the danger produced a very different effect. Now, he thought,
was the time to turn the war between the English and the Irish into a
war of extirpation, and to make it impossible that the two nations could
ever be united under one government. With this view, he coolly submitted
to the King a proposition of almost incredible atrocity. There must be
a Saint Bartholomew. A pretext would easily be found. No doubt, when
Schomberg was known to be in Ireland, there would be some excitement in
those southern towns of which the population was chiefly English. Any
disturbance, wherever it might take place, would furnish an excuse for a
general massacre of the Protestants of Leinster, Munster, and
Connaught, [429] As the King did not at first express any horror at this
suggestion, [430] the Envoy, a few days later, renewed the subject, and
pressed His Majesty to give the necessary orders. Then James, with a
warmth which did him honour, declared that nothing should induce him to
commit such a crime. "These people are my subjects; and I cannot be
so cruel as to cut their throats while they live peaceably under my
government." "There is nothing cruel," answered the callous diplomatist,
"in what I recommend. Your Majesty ought to consider that mercy to
Protestants is cruelty to Catholics." James, however, was not to be
moved; and Avaux retired in very bad humour. His belief was that the
King's professions of humanity were hypocritical, and that, if the
orders for the butchery were not given, they were not given only because
His Majesty was confident that the Catholics all over the country would
fall on the Protestants without waiting for orders, [431] But Avaux
was entirely mistaken. That he should have supposed James to be as
profoundly immoral as himself is not strange. But it is strange that
so able a man should have forgotten that James and himself had quite
different objects in view. The object of the Ambassador's politics was
to make the separation between England and Ireland eternal. The object
of the King's politics was to unite England and Ireland under his
own sceptre; and he could not but be aware that, if there should be a
general massacre of the Protestants of three provinces, and he should
be suspected of having authorised it or of having connived at it, there
would in a fortnight be not a Jacobite left even at Oxford, [432]
Just at this time the prospects of James, which had seemed hopelessly
dark, began to brighten. The danger which had unnerved him had roused
the Irish people. They had, six months before, risen up as one man
against the Saxons. The army which Tyrconnel had formed was, in
proportion to the population from which it was taken, the largest that
Europe had ever seen. But that army had sustained a long succession of
defeats and disgraces, unredeemed by a single brilliant achievement. It
was the fashion, both in England and on the Continent, to ascribe those
defeats and disgraces to the pusillanimity of the Irish race, [433] That
this was a great error is sufficiently proved by the history of every
war which has been carried on in any part of Christendom during five
generations. The raw material out of which a good army may be formed
existed in great abundance among the Irish. Avaux informed his
government that they were a remarkably handsome, tall, and well made
race; that they were personally brave; that they were sincerely attached
to the cause for which they were in arms; that they were violently
exasperated against the colonists. After extolling their strength and
spirit, he proceeded to explain why it was that, with all their strength
and spirit, they were constantly beaten. It was vain, he said, to
imagine that bodily prowess, animal courage, or patriotic enthusiasm
would, in the day of battle, supply the place of discipline. The
infantry were ill armed and ill trained. They were suffered to pillage
wherever they went. They had contracted all the habits of banditti.
There was among them scarcely one officer capable of showing them their
duty. Their colonels were generally men of good family, but men who had
never seen service. The captains were butchers, tailors, shoemakers.
Hardly one of them troubled himself about the comforts, the
accoutrements, or the drilling of those over whom he was placed. The
dragoons were little better than the infantry. But the horse were, with
some exceptions, excellent. Almost all the Irish gentlemen who had
any military experience held commissions in the cavalry; and, by
the exertions of these officers, some regiments had been raised and
disciplined which Avaux pronounced equal to any that he had ever seen.
It was therefore evident that the inefficiency of the foot and of the
dragoons was to be ascribed to the vices, not of the Irish character,
but of the Irish administration, [434]
The events which took place in the autumn of 1689 sufficiently proved
that the ill fated race, which enemies and allies generally agreed
in regarding with unjust contempt, had, together with the faults
inseparable from poverty, ignorance, and superstition, some fine
qualities which have not always been found in more prosperous and more
enlightened communities. The evil tidings which terrified and bewildered
James stirred the whole population of the southern provinces like the
peal of a trumpet sounding to battle. That Ulster was lost, that the
English were coming, that the death grapple between the two hostile
nations was at hand, was proclaimed from all the altars of three and
twenty counties. One last chance was left; and, if that chance failed,
nothing remained but the despotic, the merciless, rule of the Saxon
colony and of the heretical church. The Roman Catholic priest who had
just taken possession of the glebe house and the chancel, the Roman
Catholic squire who had just been carried back on the shoulders of the
shouting tenantry into the hall of his fathers, would be driven forth to
live on such alms as peasants, themselves oppressed and miserable,
could spare. A new confiscation would complete the work of the Act
of Settlement; and the followers of William would seize whatever the
followers of Cromwell had spared. These apprehensions produced such an
outbreak of patriotic and religious enthusiasm as deferred for a time
the inevitable day of subjugation. Avaux was amazed by the energy which,
in circumstances so trying, the Irish displayed. It was indeed the wild
and unsteady energy of a half barbarous people: it was transient: it
was often misdirected: but, though transient and misdirected, it did
wonders. The French Ambassador was forced to own that those officers
of whose incompetency and inactivity he had so often complained had
suddenly shaken off their lethargy. Recruits came in by thousands. The
ranks which had been thinned under the walls of Londonderry were soon
again full to overflowing. Great efforts were made to arm and clothe the
troops; and, in the short space of a fortnight, every thing presented a
new and cheering aspect, [435]
The Irish required of the King, in return for their strenuous exertions
in his cause, one concession which was by no means agreeable to him. The
unpopularity of Melfort had become such, that his person was scarcely
safe. He had no friend to speak a word in his favour. The French hated
him. In every letter which arrived at Dublin from England or from
Scotland, he was described as the evil genius of the House of Stuart. It
was necessary for his own sake to dismiss him. An honourable pretext was
found. He was ordered to repair to Versailles, to represent there the
state of affairs in Ireland, and to implore the French government to
send over without delay six or seven thousand veteran infantry. He laid
down the seals; and they were, to the great delight of the Irish, put
into the hands of an Irishman, Sir Richard Nagle, who had made himself
conspicuous as Attorney General and Speaker of the House of Commons.
Melfort took his departure under cover of the night: for the rage of
the populace against him was such that he could not without danger show
himself in the streets of Dublin by day. On the following morning James
left his capital in the opposite direction to encounter Schomberg, [436]
Schomberg had landed in Antrim. The force which he had brought with him
did not exceed ten thousand men. But he expected to be joined by the
armed colonists and by the regiments which were under Kirke's command.
The coffeehouse politicians of London fully expected that such a general
with such an army would speedily reconquer the island. Unhappily it soon
appeared that the means which had been furnished to him were altogether
inadequate to the work which he had to perform: of the greater part
of these means he was speedily deprived by a succession of unforeseen
calamities; and the whole campaign was merely a long struggle maintained
by his prudence and resolution against the utmost spite of fortune.
He marched first to Carrickfergus. That town was held for James by two
regiments of infantry. Schomberg battered the walls; and the Irish,
after holding out a week, capitulated. He promised that they should
depart unharmed; but he found it no easy matter to keep his word. The
people of the town and neighbourhood were generally Protestants of
Scottish extraction. They had suffered much during the short ascendency
of the native race; and what they had suffered they were now eager
to retaliate. They assembled in great multitudes, exclaiming that the
capitulation was nothing to them, and that they would be revenged. They
soon proceeded from words to blows. The Irish, disarmed, stripped, and
hustled, clung for protection to the English officers and soldiers.
Schomberg with difficulty prevented a massacre by spurring, pistol in
hand, through the throng of the enraged colonists, [437]
From Carrickfergus Schomberg proceeded to Lisburn, and thence, through
towns left without an inhabitant, and over plains on which not a cow,
nor a sheep, nor a stack of corn was to be seen, to Loughbrickland. Here
he was joined by three regiments of Enniskilleners, whose dress, horses,
and arms locked strange to eyes accustomed to the pomp of reviews, but
who in natural courage were inferior to no troops in the world, and who
had, during months of constant watching and skirmishing, acquired many
of the essential qualities of soldiers. [438]
Schomberg continued to advance towards Dublin through a desert. The few
Irish troops which remained in the south of Ulster retreated before
him, destroying as they retreated. Newry, once a well built and thriving
Protestant borough, he found a heap of smoking ashes. Carlingford too
had perished. The spot where the town had once stood was marked only by
the massy remains of the old Norman castle. Those who ventured to wander
from the camp reported that the country, as far as they could explore
it, was a wilderness. There were cabins, but no inmates: there was rich
pasture, but neither flock nor herd: there were cornfields; but the
harvest lay on the ground soaked with rain, [439]
While Schomberg was advancing through a vast solitude, the Irish forces
were rapidly assembling from every quarter. On the tenth of September
the royal standard of James was unfurled on the tower of Drogheda;
and beneath it were soon collected twenty thousand fighting men, the
infantry generally bad, the cavalry generally good, but both infantry
and cavalry full of zeal for their country and their religion, [440] The
troops were attended as usual by a great multitude of camp followers,
armed with scythes, half pikes, and skeans. By this time Schomberg had
reached Dundalk. The distance between the two armies was not more than
a long day's march. It was therefore generally expected that the fate of
the island would speedily be decided by a pitched battle.
In both camps, all who did not understand war were eager to fight; and,
in both camps; the few who head a high reputation for military science
were against fighting. Neither Rosen nor Schomberg wished to put every
thing on a cast. Each of them knew intimately the defects of his own
army, and neither of them was fully aware of the defects of the other's
army. Rosen was certain that the Irish infantry were "worse equipped,
worse officered, and worse drilled," than any infantry that he had ever
seen from the Gulf of Bothnia to the Atlantic; and he supposed that the
English troops were well trained, and were, as they doubtless ought
to have been, amply provided with every thing necessary to their
efficiency. Numbers, he rightly judged, would avail little against a
great superiority of arms and discipline. He therefore advised James to
fall back, and even to abandon Dublin to the enemy, rather than hazard a
battle the loss of which would be the loss of all. Athlone was the best
place in the kingdom for a determined stand. The passage of the Shannon
might be defended till the succours which Melfort had been charged to
solicit came from France; and those succours would change the whole
character of the war. But the Irish, with Tyrconnel at their head, were
unanimous against retreating. The blood of the whole nation was up.
James was pleased with the enthusiasm of his subjects, and positively
declared that he would not disgrace himself by leaving his capital to
the invaders without a blow, [441]
In a few days it became clear that Schomberg had determined not to
fight. His reasons were weighty. He had some good Dutch and French
troops. The Enniskilleners who had joined him had served a military
apprenticeship, though not in a very regular manner. But the bulk of his
army consisted of English peasants who had just left their cottages. His
musketeers had still to learn how to load their pieces: his dragoons
had still to learn how to manage their horses; and these inexperienced
recruits were for the most part commanded by officers as inexperienced
as themselves. His troops were therefore not generally superior in
discipline to the Irish, and were in number far inferior. Nay, he found
that his men were almost as ill armed, as ill lodged, as ill clad, as
the Celts to whom they were opposed. The wealth of the English nation
and the liberal votes of the English parliament had entitled him to
expect that he should be abundantly supplied with all the munitions of
war. But he was cruelly disappointed. The administration had, ever since
the death of Oliver, been constantly becoming more and more imbecile,
more and more corrupt; and now the Revolution reaped what the
Restoration had sown. A crowd of negligent or ravenous functionaries,
formed under Charles and James, plundered, starved, and poisoned the
armies and fleets of William. Of these men the most important was Henry
Shales, who, in the late reign, had been Commissary General to the camp
at Hounslow. It is difficult to blame the new government for continuing
to employ him: for, in his own department, his experience far surpassed
that of any other Englishman. Unfortunately, in the same school in
which he had acquired his experience, he had learned the whole art of
peculation. The beef and brandy which he furnished were so bad that
the soldiers turned from them with loathing: the tents were rotten: the
clothing was scanty: the muskets broke in the handling. Great numbers
of shoes were set down to the account of the government: but, two months
after the Treasury had paid the bill, the shoes had not arrived in
Ireland. The means of transporting baggage and artillery were almost
entirely wanting. An ample number of horses had been purchased in
England with the public money, and had been sent to the banks of the
Dee. But Shales had let them out for harvest work to the farmers of
Cheshire, had pocketed the hire, and had left the troops in Ulster to
get on as they best might, [442] Schomberg thought that, if he should,
with an ill trained and ill appointed army, risk a battle against a
superior force, he might not improbably be defeated; and he knew that a
defeat might be followed by the loss of one kingdom, perhaps by the
loss of three kingdoms. He therefore made up his mind to stand on the
defensive till his men had been disciplined, and till reinforcements and
supplies should arrive.
He entrenched himself near Dundalk in such a manner that he could not
be forced to fight against his will. James, emboldened by the caution of
his adversary, and disregarding the advice of Rosen, advanced to Ardee,
appeared at the head of the whole Irish army before the English lines,
drew up horse, foot and artillery, in order of battle, and displayed
his banner. The English were impatient to fall on. But their general had
made up his mind, and was not to be moved by the bravadoes of the enemy
or by the murmurs of his own soldiers. During some weeks he remained
secure within his defences, while the Irish lay a few miles off. He set
himself assiduously to drill those new levies which formed the greater
part of his army. He ordered the musketeers to be constantly exercised
in firing, sometimes at marks and sometimes by platoons; and, from the
way in which they at first acquitted themselves, it plainly appeared
that he had judged wisely in not leading them out to battle. It was
found that not one in four of the English soldiers could manage his
piece at all; and whoever succeeded in discharging it, no matter in what
direction, thought that he had performed a great feat.
While the Duke was thus employed, the Irish eyed his camp without daring
to attack it. But within that camp soon appeared two evils more terrible
than the foe, treason and pestilence. Among the best troops under his
command were the French exiles. And now a grave doubt arose touching
their fidelity. The real Huguenot refugee indeed might safely be
trusted. The dislike with which the most zealous English Protestant
regarded the House of Bourbon and the Church of Rome was a lukewarm
feeling when compared with that inextinguishable hatred which glowed
in the bosom of the persecuted, dragooned, expatriated Calvinist of
Languedoc. The Irish had already remarked that the French heretic
neither gave nor took quarter, [443] Now, however, it was found that
with those emigrants who had sacrificed every thing for the reformed
religion were intermingled emigrants of a very different sort, deserters
who had run away from their standards in the Low Countries, and had
coloured their crime by pretending that they were Protestants, and that
their conscience would not suffer them to fight for the persecutor of
their Church. Some of these men, hoping that by a second treason they
might obtain both pardon and reward, opened a correspondence with Avaux.
The letters were intercepted; and a formidable plot was brought to
light. It appeared that, if Schomberg had been weak enough to yield to
the importunity of those who wished him to give battle, several French
companies would, in the heat of the action, have fired on the English,
and gone over to the enemy. Such a defection might well have produced
a general panic in a better army than that which was encamped under
Dundalk. It was necessary to be severe. Six of the conspirators were
hanged. Two hundred of their accomplices were sent in irons to England.
Even after this winnowing, the refugees were long regarded by the rest
of the army with unjust but not unnatural suspicion. During some
days indeed there was great reason to fear that the enemy would be
entertained with a bloody fight between the English soldiers and their
French allies, [444]
A few hours before the execution of the chief conspirators, a general
muster of the army was held; and it was observed that the ranks of the
English battalions looked thin. From the first day of the campaign,
there had been much sickness among the recruits: but it was not till
the time of the equinox that the mortality became alarming. The autumnal
rains of Ireland are usually heavy; and this year they were heavier
than usual. The whole country was deluged; and the Duke's camp became a
marsh. The Enniskillen men were seasoned to the climate. The Dutch were
accustomed to live in a country which, as a wit of that age said, draws
fifty feet of water. They kept their huts dry and clean; and they had
experienced and careful officers who did not suffer them to omit any
precaution. But the peasants of Yorkshire and Derbyshire had neither
constitutions prepared to resist the pernicious influence, nor skill
to protect themselves against it. The bad provisions furnished by the
Commissariat aggravated the maladies generated by the air. Remedies
were almost entirely wanting. The surgeons were few. The medicine chests
contained little more than lint and plaisters for wounds. The English
sickened and died by hundreds. Even those who were not smitten by the
pestilence were unnerved and dejected, and, instead of putting forth the
energy which is the heritage of our race, awaited their fate with the
helpless apathy of Asiatics. It was in vain that Schomberg tried to
teach them to improve their habitations, and to cover the wet earth on
which they lay with a thick carpet of fern. Exertion had become more
dreadful to them than death. It was not to be expected that men who
would not help themselves should help each other. Nobody asked and
nobody showed compassion. Familiarity with ghastly spectacles produced
a hardheartedness and a desperate impiety, of which an example will not
easily be found even in the history of infectious diseases. The moans of
the sick were drowned by the blasphemy and ribaldry of their comrades.
Sometimes, seated on the body of a wretch who had died in the morning,
might be seen a wretch destined to die before night, cursing, singing
loose songs, and swallowing usquebaugh to the health of the devil. When
the corpses were taken away to be buried the survivors grumbled. A dead
man, they said, was a good screen and a good stool. Why, when there was
so abundant a supply of such useful articles of furniture, were
people to be exposed to the cold air and forced to crouch on the moist
ground? [445]
Many of the sick were sent by the English vessels which lay off the
coast to Belfast, where a great hospital had been prepared. But scarce
half of them lived to the end of the voyage. More than one ship lay
long in the bay of Carrickfergus heaped with carcasses, and exhaling the
stench of death, without a living man on board, [446]
The Irish army suffered much less. The kerne of Munster or Connaught
was dune as well off in the camp as if he had been in his own mud cabin
inhaling the vapours of his own quagmire. He naturally exulted in the
distress of the Saxon heretics, and flattered himself that they would be
destroyed without a blow. He heard with delight the guns pealing all
day over the graves of the English officers, till at length the funerals
became too numerous to be celebrated with military pomp, and the
mournful sounds were succeeded by a silence more mournful still.
The superiority of force was now so decidedly on the side of James that
he could safely venture to detach five regiments from his army, and to
send them into Connaught. Sarsfield commanded them. He did not, indeed,
stand so high as he deserved in the royal estimation. The King, with
an air of intellectual superiority which must have made Avaux and
Rosen bite their lips, pronounced him a brave fellow, but very scantily
supplied with brains. It was not without great difficulty that the
Ambassador prevailed on His Majesty to raise the best officer in the
Irish army to the rank of Brigadier. Sarsfield now fully vindicated
the favourable opinion which his French patrons had formed of him. He
dislodged the English from Sligo; and he effectually secured Galway,
which had been in considerable danger, [447]
No attack, however, was made on the English entrenchments before
Dundalk. In the midst of difficulties and disasters hourly multiplying,
the great qualities of Schomberg appeared hourly more and more
conspicuous. Not in the full tide of success, not on the field of Montes
Claros, not under the walls of Maestricht, had he so well deserved the
admiration of mankind. His resolution never gave way. His prudence never
slept. His temper, in spite of manifold vexations and provocations, was
always cheerful and serene. The effective men under his command, even
if all were reckoned as effective who were not stretched on the earth
by fever, did not now exceed five thousand. These were hardly equal to
their ordinary duty; and yet it was necessary to harass them with double
duty. Nevertheless so masterly were the old man's dispositions that with
this small force he faced during several weeks twenty thousand troops
who were accompanied by a multitude of armed banditti. At length early
in November the Irish dispersed, and went to winter quarters. The Duke
then broke up his camp and retired into Ulster. Just as the remains
of his army were about to move, a rumour spread that the enemy was
approaching in great force. Had this rumour been true, the danger would
have been extreme. But the English regiments, though they had been
reduced to a third part of their complement, and though the men who were
in best health were hardly able to shoulder arms, showed a strange
joy and alacrity at the prospect of battle, and swore that the Papists
should pay for all the misery of the last month. "We English," Schomberg
said, identifying himself good humouredly with the people of the country
which had adopted him, "we English have stomach enough for fighting.
It is a pity that we are not as fond of some other parts of a soldier's
business."
The alarm proved false: the Duke's army departed unmolested: but
the highway along which he retired presented a piteous and hideous
spectacle. A long train of waggons laden with the sick jolted over the
rugged pavement. At every jolt some wretched man gave up the ghost. The
corpse was flung out and left unburied to the foxes and crows. The whole
number of those who died, in the camp at Dundalk, in the hospital at
Belfast, on the road, and on the sea, amounted to above six thousand.
The survivors were quartered for the winter in the towns and villages of
Ulster. The general fixed his head quarters at Lisburn, [448]
His conduct was variously judged. Wise and candid men said that he had
surpassed himself, and that there was no other captain in Europe who,
with raw troops, with ignorant officers, with scanty stores, having
to contend at once against a hostile army of greatly superior force,
against a villanous commissariat, against a nest of traitors in his own
camp, and against a disease more murderous than the sword, would have
brought the campaign to a close without the loss of a flag or a gun. On
the other hand, many of those newly commissioned majors and captains,
whose helplessness had increased all his perplexities, and who had not
one qualification for their posts except personal courage, grumbled
at the skill and patience which had saved them from destruction. Their
complaints were echoed on the other side of Saint George's Channel. Some
of the murmuring, though unjust, was excusable. The parents, who had
sent a gallant lad, in his first uniform, to fight his way to glory,
might be pardoned if, when they learned that he had died on a wisp of
straw without medical attendance, and had been buried in a swamp without
any Christian or military ceremony, their affliction made them hasty and
unreasonable. But with the cry of bereaved families was mingled another
cry much less respectable. All the hearers and tellers of news abused
the general who furnished them with so little news to hear and to tell.
For men of that sort are so greedy after excitement that they far more
readily forgive a commander who loses a battle than a commander who
declines one. The politicians, who delivered their oracles from the
thickest cloud of tobacco smoke at Garroway's, confidently asked,
without knowing any thing, either of war in general, or of Irish war in
particular, why Schomberg did not fight. They could not venture to
say that he did not understand his calling. No doubt he had been an
excellent officer: but he was very old. He seemed to bear his years
well: but his faculties were not what they had been: his memory was
failing; and it was well known that he sometimes forgot in the afternoon
what he had done in the morning. It may be doubted whether there ever
existed a human being whose mind was quite as firmly toned at eighty
as at forty. But that Schomberg's intellectual powers had been little
impaired by years is sufficiently proved by his despatches, which
are still extant, and which are models of official writing, terse,
perspicuous, full of important facts and weighty reasons, compressed
into the smallest possible number of words. In those despatches he
sometimes alluded, not angrily, but with calm disdain, to the censures
thrown upon his conduct by shallow babblers, who, never having seen any
military operation more important than the relieving of the guard at
Whitehall, imagined that the easiest thing in the world was to gain
great victories in any situation and against any odds, and by sturdy
patriots who were convinced that one English tarter or thresher, who had
not yet learned how to load a gun or port a pike, was a match for any
five musketeers of King Lewis's household, [449]
Unsatisfactory as had been the results of the campaign in Ireland, the
results of the maritime operations of the year were more unsatisfactory
still. It had been confidently expected that, on the sea, England,
allied with Holland, would have been far more than a match for the power
of Lewis: but everything went wrong. Herbert had, after the unimportant
skirmish of Bantry Bay, returned with his squadron to Portsmouth. There
he found that he had not lost the good opinion either of the public or
of the government. The House of Commons thanked him for his services;
and he received signal marks of the favour of the Crown. He had not been
at the coronation, and had therefore missed his share of the rewards
which, at the time of that solemnity, had been distributed among the
chief agents in the Revolution. The omission was now repaired; and he
was created Earl of Torrington. The King went down to Portsmouth, dined
on board of the Admiral's flag ship, expressed the fullest confidence
in the valour and loyalty of the navy, knighted two gallant captains,
Cloudesley Shovel and John Ashby, and ordered a donative to be divided
among the seamen, [450]
We cannot justly blame William for having a high opinion of Torrington.
For Torrington was generally regarded as one of the bravest and most
skilful officers in the navy. He had been promoted to the rank of Rear
Admiral of England by James, who, if he understood any thing, understood
maritime affairs. That place and other lucrative places Torrington had
relinquished when he found that he could retain them only by submitting
to be a tool of the Jesuitical cabal. No man had taken a more active,
a more hazardous, or a more useful part in effecting the Revolution. It
seemed, therefore, that no man had fairer pretensions to be put at the
head of the naval administration. Yet no man could be more unfit for
such a post. His morals had always been loose, so loose indeed that the
firmness with which in the late reign he had adhered to his religion
had excited much surprise. His glorious disgrace indeed seemed to have
produced a salutary effect on his character. In poverty and exile he
rose from a voluptuary into a hero. But, as soon as prosperity returned,
the hero sank again into a voluptuary; and the lapse was deep and
hopeless. The nerves of his mind, which had been during a short time
braced to a firm tone, were now so much relaxed by vice that he was
utterly incapable of selfdenial or of strenuous exertion. The vulgar
courage of a foremast man he still retained. But both as Admiral and
as First Lord of the Admiralty he was utterly inefficient. Month after
month the fleet which should have been the terror of the seas lay in
harbour while he was diverting himself in London. The sailors, punning
upon his new title, gave him the name of Lord Tarry-in-town. When he
came on shipboard he was accompanied by a bevy of courtesans. There was
scarcely an hour of the day or of the night when he was not under the
influence of claret. Being insatiable of pleasure, he necessarily became
insatiable of wealth. Yet he loved flattery almost as much as either
wealth or pleasure. He had long been in the habit of exacting the most
abject homage from those who were under his command. His flagship was a
little Versailles. He expected his captains to attend him to his cabin
when he went to bed, and to assemble every morning at his levee. He even
suffered them to dress him. One of them combed his flowing wig; another
stood ready with the embroidered coat. Under such a chief there could be
no discipline. His tars passed their time in rioting among the rabble of
Portsmouth. Those officers who won his favour by servility and adulation
easily obtained leave of absence, and spent weeks in London, revelling
in taverns, scouring the streets, or making love to the masked ladies
in the pit of the theatre. The victuallers soon found out with whom they
had to deal, and sent down to the fleet casks of meat which dogs would
not touch, and barrels of beer which smelt worse than bilge water.
Meanwhile the British Channel seemed to be abandoned to French rovers.
Our merchantmen were boarded in sight of the ramparts of Plymouth. The
sugar fleet from the West Indies lost seven ships. The whole value
of the prizes taken by the cruisers of the enemy in the immediate
neighbourhood of our island, while Torrington was engaged with his
bottle and his harem, was estimated at six hundred thousand pounds. So
difficult was it to obtain the convoy of a man of war, except by giving
immense bribes, that our traders were forced to hire the services of
Dutch privateers, and found these foreign mercenaries much more useful
and much less greedy than the officers of our own royal navy, [451]
The only department with which no fault could be found was the
department of Foreign Affairs. There William was his own minister; and,
where he was his own minister, there were no delays, no blunders, no
jobs, no treasons. The difficulties with which he had to contend were
indeed great. Even at the Hague he had to encounter an opposition
which all his wisdom and firmness could, with the strenuous support of
Heinsius, scarcely overcome. The English were not aware that, while
they were murmuring at their Sovereign's partiality for the land of his
birth, a strong party in Holland was murmuring at his partiality for the
land of his adoption. The Dutch ambassadors at Westminster complained
that the terms of alliance which he proposed were derogatory to the
dignity and prejudicial to the interests of the republic; that wherever
the honour of the English flag was concerned, he was punctilious and
obstinate; that he peremptorily insisted on an article which interdicted
all trade with France, and which could not but be grievously felt on
the Exchange of Amsterdam; that, when they expressed a hope that the
Navigation Act would be repealed, he burst out a laughing, and told them
that the thing was not to be thought of. He carried all his points; and
a solemn contract was made by which England and the Batavian federation
bound themselves to stand firmly by each other against France, and
not to make peace except by mutual consent. But one of the Dutch
plenipotentiaries declared that he was afraid of being one day held
up to obloquy as a traitor for conceding so much; and the signature
of another plainly appeared to have been traced by a hand shaking with
emotion, [452]
Meanwhile under William's skilful management a treaty of alliance had
been concluded between the States General and the Emperor. To that
treaty Spain and England gave in their adhesion; and thus the four great
powers which had long been bound together by a friendly understanding
were bound together by a formal contract, [453]
But before that formal contract had been signed and sealed, all the
contracting parties were in arms. Early in the year 1689 war was raging
all over the Continent from the Humus to the Pyrenees. France, attacked
at once on every side, made on every side a vigorous defence; and her
Turkish allies kept a great German force fully employed in Servia and
Bulgaria. On the whole, the results of the military operations of the
summer were not unfavourable to the confederates. Beyond the Danube,
the Christians, under Prince Lewis of Baden, gained a succession of
victories over the Mussulmans. In the passes of Roussillon, the French
troops contended without any decisive advantage against the martial
peasantry of Catalonia. One German army, led by the Elector of Bavaria,
occupied the Archbishopric of Cologne. Another was commanded by Charles,
Duke of Lorraine, a sovereign who, driven from his own dominions by
the arms of France, had turned soldier of fortune, and had, as
such, obtained both distinction and revenge. He marched against the
devastators of the Palatinate, forced them to retire behind the Rhine,
and, after a long siege, took the important and strongly fortified city
of Mentz.
Between the Sambre and the Meuse the French, commanded by Marshal
Humieres, were opposed to the Dutch, commanded by the Prince of Waldeck,
an officer who had long served the States General with fidelity and
ability, though not always with good fortune, and who stood high in the
estimation of William. Under Waldeck's orders was Marlborough, to whom
William had confided an English brigade consisting of the best regiments
of the old army of James. Second to Marlborough in command, and second
also in professional skill, was Thomas Talmash, a brave soldier,
destined to a fate never to be mentioned without shame and indignation.
Between the army of Waldeck and the army of Humieres no general action
took place: but in a succession of combats the advantage was on the side
of the confederates. Of these combats the most important took place at
Walcourt on the fifth of August. The French attacked an outpost defended
by the English brigade, were vigorously repulsed, and were forced to
retreat in confusion, abandoning a few field pieces to the conquerors
and leaving more than six hundred corpses on the ground. Marlborough, on
this as on every similar occasion, acquitted himself like a valiant and
skilful captain. The Coldstream Guards commanded by Talmash, and the
regiment which is now called the sixteenth of the line, commanded
by Colonel Robert Hodges, distinguished themselves highly. The Royal
regiment too, which had a few months before set up the standard of
rebellion at Ipswich, proved on this day that William, in freely
pardoning that great fault, had acted not less wisely than generously.
The testimony which Waldeck in his despatch bore to the gallant conduct
of the islanders was read with delight by their countrymen. The fight
indeed was no more than a skirmish: but it was a sharp and bloody
skirmish. There had within living memory been no equally serious
encounter between the English and French; and our ancestors were
naturally elated by finding that many years of inaction and vassalage
did not appear to have enervated the courage of the nation, [454]
The Jacobites however discovered in the events of the campaign abundant
matter for invective. Marlborough was, not without reason, the object
of their bitterest hatred. In his behaviour on a field of battle malice
itself could find little to censure: but there were other parts of his
conduct which presented a fair mark for obloquy. Avarice is rarely
the vice of a young man: it is rarely the vice of a great man: but
Marlborough was one of the few who have, in the bloom of youth, loved
lucre more than wine or women, and who have, at the height of greatness,
loved lucre more than power or fame. All the precious gifts which nature
had lavished on him he valued chiefly for what they would fetch. At
twenty he made money of his beauty and his vigour. At sixty he made
money of his genius and his glory. The applauses which were justly due
to his conduct at Walcourt could not altogether drown the voices of
those who muttered that, wherever a broad piece was to be saved or got,
this hero was a mere Euclio, a mere Harpagon; that, though he drew a
large allowance under pretence of keeping a public table, he never asked
an officer to dinner; that his muster rolls were fraudulently made up;
that he pocketed pay in the names of men who had long been dead, of men
who had been killed in his own sight four years before at Sedgemoor;
that there were twenty such names in one troop; that there were
thirty-six in another. Nothing but the union of dauntless courage and
commanding powers of mind with a bland temper and winning manners
could have enabled him to gain and keep, in spite of faults eminently
unsoldierlike, the good will of his soldiers, [455]
About the time at which the contending armies in every part of Europe
were going into winter quarters, a new Pontiff ascended the chair
of Saint Peter. Innocent the Eleventh was no more. His fate had been
strange indeed. His conscientious and fervent attachment to the Church
of which he was the head had induced him, at one of the most critical
conjunctures in her history, to ally herself with her mortal enemies.
The news of his decease was received with concern and alarm by
Protestant princes and commonwealths, and with joy and hope at
Versailles and Dublin. An extraordinary ambassador of high rank was
instantly despatched by Lewis to Rome. The French garrison which had
been placed in Avignon was withdrawn. When the votes of the Conclave
had been united in favour of Peter Ottobuoni, an ancient Cardinal who
assumed the appellation of Alexander the Eighth, the representative
of France assisted at the installation, bore up the cope of the new
Pontiff, and put into the hands of His Holiness a letter in which the
most Christian King declared that he renounced the odious privilege of
protecting robbers and assassins. Alexander pressed the letter to his
lips, embraced the bearer, and talked with rapture of the near prospect
of reconciliation. Lewis began to entertain a hope that the influence of
the Vatican might be exerted to dissolve the alliance between the House
of Austria and the heretical usurper of the English throne. James was
even more sanguine. He was foolish enough to expect that the new Pope
would give him money, and ordered Melfort, who had now acquitted himself
of his mission at Versailles, to hasten to Rome, and beg His Holiness to
contribute something towards the good work of upholding pure religion
in the British islands. But it soon appeared that Alexander, though
he might hold language different from that of his predecessor, was
determined to follow in essentials his predecessor's policy. The
original cause of the quarrel between the Holy See and Lewis was not
removed. The King continued to appoint prelates: the Pope continued to
refuse their institution: and the consequence was that a fourth part of
the dioceses of France had bishops who were incapable of performing any
episcopal function, [456]
The Anglican Church was, at this time, not less distracted than the
Gallican Church. The first of August had been fixed by Act of Parliament
as the day before the close of which all beneficed clergymen and all
persons holding academical offices must, on pain of suspension, swear
allegiance to William and Mary. During the earlier part of the
summer, the Jacobites hoped that the number of nonjurors would be so
considerable as seriously to alarm and embarrass the Government. But
this hope was disappointed. Few indeed of the clergy were Whigs. Few
were Tories of that moderate school which acknowledged, reluctantly and
with reserve, that extreme abuses might sometimes justify a nation in
resorting to extreme remedies. The great majority of the profession
still held the doctrine of passive obedience: but that majority was now
divided into two sections. A question, which, before the Revolution,
had been mere matter of speculation, and had therefore, though
sometimes incidentally raised, been, by most persons, very superficially
considered, had now become practically most important. The doctrine of
passive obedience being taken for granted, to whom was that obedience
due? While the hereditary right and the possession were conjoined, there
was no room for doubt: but the hereditary right and the possession were
now separated. One prince, raised by the Revolution, was reigning at
Westminster, passing laws, appointing magistrates and prelates, sending
forth armies and fleets. His judges decided causes. His Sheriffs
arrested debtors and executed criminals. Justice, order, property, would
cease to exist, and society would be resolved into chaos, but for
his Great Seal. Another prince, deposed by the Revolution, was living
abroad. He could exercise none of the powers and perform none of the
duties of a ruler, and could, as it seemed, be restored only by means as
violent as those by which he had been displaced, to which of these two
princes did Christian men owe allegiance?
To a large part of the clergy it appeared that the plain letter
of Scripture required them to submit to the Sovereign who was in
possession, without troubling themselves about his title. The powers
which the Apostle, in the text most familiar to the Anglican divines of
that age, pronounces to be ordained of God, are not the powers that
can be traced back to a legitimate origin, but the powers that be. When
Jesus was asked whether the chosen people might lawfully give tribute to
Caesar, he replied by asking the questioners, not whether Caesar could
make out a pedigree derived from the old royal house of Judah, but
whether the coin which they scrupled to pay into Caesar's treasury came
from Caesar's mint, in other words, whether Caesar actually possessed
the authority and performed the functions of a ruler.
It is generally held, with much appearance of reason, that the most
trustworthy comment on the text of the Gospels and Epistles is to be
found in the practice of the primitive Christians, when that practice
can be satisfactorily ascertained; and it so happened that the times
during which the Church is universally acknowledged to have been in the
highest state of purity were times of frequent and violent political
change. One at least of the Apostles appears to have lived to see four
Emperors pulled down in little more than a year. Of the martyrs of the
third century a great proportion must have been able to remember ten
or twelve revolutions. Those martyrs must have had occasion often to
consider what was their duty towards a prince just raised to power by
a successful insurrection. That they were, one and all, deterred by the
fear of punishment from doing what they thought right, is an imputation
which no candid infidel would throw on them. Yet, if there be any
proposition which can with perfect confidence be affirmed touching the
early Christians, it is this, that they never once refused obedience
to any actual ruler on account of the illegitimacy of his title. At
one time, indeed, the supreme power was claimed by twenty or thirty
competitors. Every province from Britain to Egypt had its own Augustus.
All these pretenders could not be rightful Emperors. Yet it does not
appear that, in any place, the faithful had any scruple about submitting
to the person who, in that place, exercised the imperial functions.
While the Christian of Rome obeyed Aurelian, the Christian of Lyons
obeyed Tetricus, and the Christian of Palmyra obeyed Zenobia. "Day and
night," such were the words which the great Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage,
addressed to the representative of Valerian and Gallienus,--"day and
night do we Christians pray to the one true God for the safety of our
Emperors." Yet those Emperors had a few months before pulled down their
predecessor Aemilianus, who had pulled down his predecessor Gallus,
who had climbed to power on the ruins of the house of his predecessor
Decius, who had slain his predecessor Philip, who had slain his
predecessor Gordian. Was it possible to believe that a saint, who had,
in the short space of thirteen or fourteen years, borne true allegiance
to this series of rebels and regicides, would have made a schism in the
Christian body rather than acknowledge King William and Queen Mary? A
hundred times those Anglican divines who had taken the oaths challenged
their more scrupulous brethren to cite a single instance in which the
primitive Church had refused obedience to a successful usurper; and a
hundred times the challenge was evaded. The nonjurors had little to say
on this head, except that precedents were of no force when opposed to
principles, a proposition which came with but a bad grace from a school
which had always professed an almost superstitious reverence for the
authority of the Fathers, [457]
To precedents drawn from later and more corrupt times little respect
was due. But, even in the history of later and more corrupt times, the
nonjurors could not easily find any precedent that would serve their
purpose. In our own country many Kings, who had not the hereditary
right, had filled the throne but it had never been thought inconsistent
with the duty of a Christian to be a true liegeman to such Kings. The
usurpation of Henry the Fourth, the more odious usurpation of Richard
the Third, had produced no schism in the Church. As soon as the usurper
was firm in his seat, Bishops had done homage to him for their domains:
Convocations had presented addresses to him, and granted him supplies;
nor had any casuist ever pronounced that such submission to a prince in
possession was deadly sin, [458]
With the practice of the whole Christian world the authoritative
teaching of the Church of England appeared to be in strict harmony. The
Homily on Wilful Rebellion, a discourse which inculcates, in unmeasured
terms, the duty of obeying rulers, speaks of none but actual rulers.
Nay, the people are distinctly told in that Homily that they are bound
to obey, not only their legitimate prince, but any usurper whom God
shall in anger set over them for their sins. And surely it would be
the height of absurdity to say that we must accept submissively such
usurpers as God sends in anger, but must pertinaciously withhold our
obedience from usurpers whom He sends in mercy. Grant that it was a
crime to invite the Prince of Orange over, a crime to join him, a crime
to make him King; yet what was the whole history of the Jewish nation
and of the Christian Church but a record of cases in which Providence
had brought good out of evil? And what theologian would assert that, in
such cases, we ought, from abhorrence of the evil, to reject the good?
On these grounds a large body of divines, still asserting the doctrine
that to resist the Sovereign must always be sinful, conceived that
William was now the Sovereign whom it would be sinful to resist.
To these arguments the nonjurors replied that Saint Paul must have meant
by the powers that be the rightful powers that be; and that to put any
other interpretation on his words would be to outrage common sense,
to dishonour religion, to give scandal to weak believers, to give an
occasion of triumph to scoffers. The feelings of all mankind must be
shocked by the proposition that, as soon as a King, however clear
his title, however wise and good his administration, is expelled by
traitors, all his servants are bound to abandon him, and to range
themselves on the side of his enemies. In all ages and nations, fidelity
to a good cause in adversity had been regarded as a virtue. In all ages
and nations, the politician whose practice was always to be on the side
which was uppermost had been despised. This new Toryism was worse than
Whiggism. To break through the ties of allegiance because the Sovereign
was a tyrant was doubtless a very great sin: but it was a sin for which
specious names and pretexts might be found, and into which a brave
and generous man, not instructed in divine truth and guarded by divine
grace, might easily fall. But to break through the ties of allegiance,
merely because the Sovereign was unfortunate, was not only wicked, but
dirty. Could any unbeliever offer a greater insult to the Scriptures
than by asserting that the Scriptures had enjoined on Christians as a
sacred duty what the light of nature had taught heathens to regard
as the last excess of baseness? In the Scriptures was to be found the
history of a King of Israel, driven from his palace by an unnatural son,
and compelled to fly beyond Jordan. David, like James, had the right:
Absalom, like William, had the possession. Would any student of the
sacred writings dare to affirm that the conduct of Shimei on that
occasion was proposed as a pattern to be imitated, and that Barzillai,
who loyally adhered to his fugitive master, was resisting the ordinance
of God, and receiving to himself damnation? Would any true son of
the Church of England seriously affirm that a man who was a strenuous
royalist till after the battle of Naseby, who then went over to the
Parliament, who, as soon as the Parliament had been purged, became an
obsequious servant of the Rump, and who, as soon as the Rump had been
ejected, professed himself a faithful subject of the Protector, was more
deserving of the respect of Christian men than the stout old Cavalier
who bore true fealty to Charles the First in prison and to Charles
the Second in exile, and who was ready to put lands, liberty, life, in
peril, rather than acknowledge, by word or act, the authority of any
of the upstart governments which, during that evil time, obtained
possession of a power not legitimately theirs? And what distinction was
there between that case and the case which had now arisen? That Cromwell
had actually enjoyed as much power as William, nay much more power than
William, was quite certain. That the power of William, as well as the
power of Cromwell, had an illegitimate origin, no divine who held the
doctrine of nonresistance would dispute. How then was it possible for
such a divine to deny that obedience had been due to Cromwell, and yet
to affirm that it was due to William? To suppose that there could be
such inconsistency without dishonesty would be not charity but weakness.
Those who were determined to comply with the Act of Parliament would
do better to speak out, and to say, what every body knew, that they
complied simply to save their benefices. The motive was no doubt strong.
That a clergyman who was a husband and a father should look forward with
dread to the first of August and the first of February was natural. But
he would do well to remember that, however terrible might be the day of
suspension and the day of deprivation, there would assuredly come
two other days more terrible still, the day of death and the day of
judgment, [459]
The swearing clergy, as they were called, were not a little perplexed by
this reasoning. Nothing embarrassed them more than the analogy which
the nonjurors were never weary of pointing out between the usurpation
of Cromwell and the usurpation of William. For there was in that age
no High Churchman who would not have thought himself reduced to an
absurdity if he had been reduced to the necessity of saying that
the Church had commanded her sons to obey Cromwell. And yet it was
impossible to prove that William was more fully in possession of supreme
power than Cromwell had been. The swearers therefore avoided coming
to close quarters with the nonjurors on this point as carefully as the
nonjurors avoided coming to close quarters with the swearers on the
question touching the practice of the primitive Church.
The truth is that the theory of government which had long been taught
by the clergy was so absurd that it could lead to nothing but absurdity.
Whether the priest who adhered to that theory swore or refused to swear,
he was alike unable to give a rational explanation of his conduct. If he
swore, he could vindicate his swearing only by laying down propositions
against which every honest heart instinctively revolts, only by
proclaiming that Christ had commanded the Church to desert the righteous
cause as soon as that cause ceased to prosper, and to strengthen the
hands of successful villany against afflicted virtue. And yet, strong as
were the objections to this doctrine, the objections to the doctrine
of the nonjuror were, if possible, stronger still. According to him, a
Christian nation ought always to be in a state of slavery or in a state
of anarchy. Something is to be said for the man who sacrifices liberty
to preserve order. Something is to be said for the man who sacrifices
order to preserve liberty. For liberty and order are two of the greatest
blessings which a society can enjoy: and, when unfortunately they appear
to be incompatible, much indulgence is due to those who take either
side. But the nonjuror sacrificed, not liberty to order, not order to
liberty, but both liberty and order to a superstition as stupid and
degrading as the Egyptian worship of cats and onions. While a particular
person, differing from other persons by the mere accident of birth,
was on the throne, though he might be a Nero, there was to be no
insubordination. When any other person was on the throne, though he
might be an Alfred, there was to be no obedience. It mattered not how
frantic and wicked might be the administration of the dynasty which
had the hereditary title, or how wise and virtuous might be the
administration of a government sprung from a revolution. Nor could any
time of limitation be pleaded against the claim of the expelled family.
The lapse of years, the lapse of ages, made no change. To the end of
the world, Christians were to regulate their political conduct simply
according to the genealogy of their ruler. The year 1800, the year
1900, might find princes who derived their title from the votes of the
Convention reigning in peace and prosperity. No matter: they would still
be usurpers; and, if, in the twentieth or twenty-first century, any
person who could make out a better right by blood to the crown should
call on a late posterity to acknowledge him as King, the call must be
obeyed on peril of eternal perdition.
A Whig might well enjoy the thought that the controversies which had
arisen among his adversaries had established the soundness of his own
political creed. The disputants who had long agreed in accusing him of
an impious error had now effectually vindicated him, and refuted one
another. The High Churchman who took the oaths had shown by irrefragable
arguments from the Gospels and the Epistles, from the uniform practice
of the primitive Church, and from the explicit declarations of the
Anglican Church, that Christians were not in all cases bound to pay
obedience to the prince who had the hereditary title. The High Churchman
who would not take the oaths had shown as satisfactorily that Christians
were not in all cases bound to pay obedience to the prince who was
actually reigning. It followed that, to entitle a government to the
allegiance of subjects, something was necessary different from mere
legitimacy, and different also from mere possession. What that something
was the Whigs had no difficulty in pronouncing. In their view, the
end for which all governments had been instituted was the happiness of
society. While the magistrate was, on the whole, notwithstanding some
faults, a minister for good, Reason taught mankind to obey him;
and Religion, giving her solemn sanction to the teaching of Reason,
commanded mankind to revere him as divinely commissioned. But if
he proved to be a minister for evil, on what grounds was he to be
considered as divinely commissioned? The Tories who swore had proved
that he ought not to be so considered on account of the origin of his
power: the Tories who would not swear had proved as clearly that he
ought not to be so considered on account of the existence of his power.
Some violent and acrimonious Whigs triumphed ostentatiously and with
merciless insolence over the perplexed and divided priesthood. The
nonjuror they generally affected to regard with contemptuous pity as
a dull and perverse, but sincere, bigot, whose absurd practice was in
harmony with his absurd theory, and who might plead, in excuse for
the infatuation which impelled him to ruin his country, that the same
infatuation had impelled him to ruin himself. They reserved their
sharpest taunts for those divines who, having, in the days of the
Exclusion Bill and the Rye House Plot, been distinguished by zeal for
the divine and indefeasible right of the hereditary Sovereign, were now
ready to swear fealty to an usurper. Was this then the real sense of all
those sublime phrases which had resounded during twenty-nine years from
innumerable pulpits? Had the thousands of clergymen, who had so loudly
boasted of the unchangeable loyalty of their order, really meant only
that their loyalty would remain unchangeable till the next change of
fortune? It was idle, it was impudent in them to pretend that their
present conduct was consistent with their former language. If any
Reverend Doctor had at length been convinced that he had been in the
wrong, he surely ought, by an open recantation, to make all the amends
now possible to the persecuted, the calumniated, the murdered defenders
of liberty. If he was still convinced that his old opinions were sound,
he ought manfully to cast in his lot with the nonjurors. Respect, it was
said, is due to him who ingenuously confesses an error; respect is due
to him who courageously suffers for an error; but it is difficult
to respect a minister of religion who, while asserting that he still
adheres to the principles of the Tories, saves his benefice by taking an
oath which can be honestly taken only on the principles of the Whigs.
These reproaches, though perhaps not altogether unjust, were
unseasonable. The wiser and more moderate Whigs, sensible that the
throne of William could not stand firm if it had not a wider basis
than their own party, abstained at this conjuncture from sneers and
invectives, and exerted themselves to remove the scruples and to soothe
the irritated feelings of the clergy. The collective power of the
rectors and vicars of England was immense: and it was much better that
they should swear for the most flimsy reason that could be devised by a
sophist than they should not swear at all.
It soon became clear that the arguments for swearing, backed as they
were by some of the strongest motives which can influence the human
mind, had prevailed. Above twenty-nine thirtieths of the profession
submitted to the law. Most of the divines of the capital, who then
formed a separate class, and who were as much distinguished from the
rural clergy by liberality of sentiment as by eloquence and learning,
gave in their adhesion to the government early, and with every sign of
cordial attachment. Eighty of them repaired together, in full term, to
Westminster Hall, and were there sworn. The ceremony occupied so long
a time that little else was done that day in the Courts of Chancery and
King's Bench, [460] But in general the compliance was tardy, sad and
sullen. Many, no doubt, deliberately sacrificed principle to interest.
Conscience told them that they were committing a sin. But they had not
fortitude to resign the parsonage, the garden, the glebe, and to go
forth without knowing where to find a meal or a roof for themselves and
their little ones. Many swore with doubts and misgivings, [461] Some
declared, at the moment of taking the oath, that they did not mean to
promise that they would not submit to James, if he should ever be in a
condition to demand their allegiance, [462] Some clergymen in the north
were, on the first of August, going in a company to swear, when they
were met on the road by the news of the battle which had been fought,
four days before, in the pass of Killiecrankie. They immediately turned
back, and did not again leave their homes on the same errand till it was
clear that Dundee's victory had made no change in the state of public
affairs, [463] Even of those whose understandings were fully convinced
that obedience was due to the existing government, very few kissed the
book with the heartiness with which they had formerly plighted their
faith to Charles and James. Still the thing was done. Ten thousand
clergymen had solemnly called heaven to attest their promise that they
would be true liegemen to William; and this promise, though it by no
means warranted him in expecting that they would strenuously support
him, had at least deprived them of a great part of their power to injure
him. They could not, without entirely forfeiting that public respect
on which their influence depended, attack, except in an indirect
and timidly cautious manner, the throne of one whom they had, in the
presence of God, vowed to obey as their King. Some of them, it is true,
affected to read the prayers for the new Sovereigns in a peculiar tone
which could not be misunderstood, [464] Others were guilty of still
grosser indecency. Thus, one wretch, just after praying for William and
Mary in the most solemn office of religion, took off a glass to their
damnation. Another, after performing divine service on a fast day
appointed by their authority, dined on a pigeon pie, and while he cut it
up, uttered a wish that it was the usurper's heart. But such audacious
wickedness was doubtless rare and was rather injurious to the Church
than to the government, [465]
Those clergymen and members of the Universities who incurred the
penalties of the law were about four hundred in number. Foremost in rank
stood the Primate and six of his suffragans, Turner of Ely, Lloyd
of Norwich, Frampton of Gloucester, Lake of Chichester, White of
Peterborough, and Ken of Bath and Wells. Thomas of Worcester would have
made a seventh: but he died three weeks before the day of suspension. On
his deathbed he adjured his clergy to be true to the cause of hereditary
right, and declared that those divines who tried to make out that the
oaths might be taken without any departure from the loyal doctrines of
the Church of England seemed to him to reason more jesuitically than the
Jesuits themselves, [466]
Ken, who, both in intellectual and in moral qualities, ranked highest
among the nonjuring prelates, hesitated long. There were few clergymen
who could have submitted to the new government with a better grace. For,
in the times when nonresistance and passive obedience were the favourite
themes of his brethren, he had scarcely ever alluded to politics in
the pulpit. He owned that the arguments in favour of swearing were
very strong. He went indeed so far as to say that his scruples would be
completely removed if he could be convinced that James had entered
into engagements for ceding Ireland to the French King. It is evident
therefore that the difference between Ken and the Whigs was not a
difference of principle. He thought, with them, that misgovernment,
carried to a certain point, justified a transfer of allegiance, and
doubted only whether the misgovernment of James had been carried quite
to that point. Nay, the good Bishop actually began to prepare a pastoral
letter explaining his reasons for taking the oaths. But, before it was
finished, he received information which convinced him that Ireland had
not been made over to France: doubts came thick upon him: he threw
his unfinished letter into the fire, and implored his less scrupulous
friends not to urge him further. He was sure, he said, that they had
acted uprightly: he was glad that they could do with a clear conscience
what he shrank from doing: he felt the force of their reasoning: he was
all but persuaded; and he was afraid to listen longer lest he should
be quite persuaded: for, if he should comply, and his misgivings should
afterwards return, he should be the most miserable of men. Not for
wealth, not for a palace, not for a peerage, would he run the smallest
risk of ever feeling the torments of remorse. It is a curious fact that,
of the seven nonjuring prelates, the only one whose name carries with it
much weight was on the point of swearing, and was prevented from doing
so, as he himself acknowledged, not by the force of reason, but by a
morbid scrupulosity which he did not advise others to imitate, [467]
Among the priests who refused the oaths were some men eminent in
the learned world, as grammarians, chronologists, canonists, and
antiquaries, and a very few who were distinguished by wit and eloquence:
but scarcely one can be named who was qualified to discuss any large
question of morals or politics, scarcely one whose writings do not
indicate either extreme feebleness or extreme flightiness of mind. Those
who distrust the judgment of a Whig on this point will probably allow
some weight to the opinion which was expressed, many years after the
Revolution, by a philosopher of whom the Tories are justly proud.
Johnson, after passing in review the celebrated divines who had thought
it sinful to swear allegiance to William the Third and George the First,
pronounced that, in the whole body of nonjurors, there was one, and one
only, who could reason, [468]
The nonjuror in whose favour Johnson made this exception was Charles
Leslie. Leslie had, before the Revolution, been Chancellor of the
diocese of Connor in Ireland. He had been forward in opposition to
Tyrconnel; had, as a justice of the peace for Monaghan, refused
to acknowledge a papist as Sheriff of that county; and had been so
courageous as to send some officers of the Irish army to prison for
marauding. But the doctrine of nonresistance, such as it had been taught
by Anglican divines in the days of the Rye House Plot, was immovably
fixed in his mind. When the state of Ulster became such that a
Protestant who remained there could hardly avoid being either a rebel or
a martyr, Leslie fled to London. His abilities and his connections were
such that he might easily have obtained high preferment in the Church of
England. But he took his place in the front rank of the Jacobite body,
and remained there stedfastly, through all the dangers and vicissitudes
of three and thirty troubled years. Though constantly engaged in
theological controversy with Deists, Jews, Socinians, Presbyterians,
Papists, and Quakers, he found time to be one of the most voluminous
political writers of his age. Of all the nonjuring clergy he was the
best qualified to discuss constitutional questions. For, before he had
taken orders, he had resided long in the Temple, and had been studying
English history and law, while most of the other chiefs of the schism
had been poring over the Acts of Chalcedon, or seeking for wisdom in the
Targurn of Onkelos, [469] In 1689, however, Leslie was almost unknown
in England. Among the divines who incurred suspension on the first
of August in that year, the highest in popular estimation was without
dispute Doctor William Sherlock. Perhaps no simple presbyter of the
Church of England has ever possessed a greater authority over his
brethren than belonged to Sherlock at the time of the Revolution. He
was not of the first rank among his contemporaries as a scholar, as a
preacher, as a writer on theology, or as a writer on politics: but in
all the four characters he had distinguished himself. The perspicuity
and liveliness of his style have been praised by Prior and Addison. The
facility and assiduity with which he wrote are sufficiently proved by
the bulk and the dates of his works. There were indeed among the clergy
men of brighter genius and men of wider attainments: but during a long
period there was none who more completely represented the order, none
who, on all subjects, spoke more precisely the sense of the Anglican
priesthood, without any taint of Latitudinarianism, of Puritanism, or of
Popery. He had, in the days of the Exclusion Bill, when the power of
the dissenters was very great in Parliament and in the country, written
strongly against the sin of nonconformity. When the Rye House Plot was
detected, he had zealously defended by tongue and pen the doctrine of
nonresistance. His services to the cause of episcopacy and monarchy were
so highly valued that he was made master of the Temple. A pension was
also bestowed on him by Charles: but that pension James soon took away;
for Sherlock, though he held himself bound to pay passive obedience to
the civil power, held himself equally bound to combat religious errors,
and was the keenest and most laborious of that host of controversialists
who, in the day of peril, manfully defended the Protestant faith. In
little more than two years he published sixteen treatises, some of them
large books, against the high pretensions of Rome. Not content with the
easy victories which he gained over such feeble antagonists as those
who were quartered at Clerkenwell and the Savoy, he had the courage to
measure his strength with no less a champion than Bossuet, and came out
of the conflict without discredit. Nevertheless Sherlock still continued
to maintain that no oppression could justify Christians in resisting
the kingly authority. When the Convention was about to meet, he strongly
recommended, in a tract which was considered as the manifesto of a
large part of the clergy, that James should be invited to return on such
conditions as might secure the laws and religion of the nation, [470]
The vote which placed William and Mary on the throne filled Sherlock
with sorrow and anger. He is said to have exclaimed that if the
Convention was determined on a revolution, the clergy would find forty
thousand good Churchmen to effect a restoration, [471] Against the new
oaths he gave his opinion plainly and warmly. He declared himself at a
loss to understand how any honest man could doubt that, by the powers
that be, Saint Paul meant legitimate powers and no others. No name
was in 1689 cited by the Jacobites so proudly and fondly as that of
Sherlock. Before the end of 1690 that name excited very different
feelings.
A few other nonjurors ought to be particularly noticed. High among them
in rank was George Hickes, Dean of Worcester. Of all the Englishmen of
his time he was the most versed in the old Teutonic languages; and his
knowledge of the early Christian literature was extensive. As to his
capacity for political discussions, it may be sufficient to say that his
favourite argument for passive obedience was drawn from the story of
the Theban legion. He was the younger brother of that unfortunate John
Hickes who had been found hidden in the malthouse of Alice Lisle. James
had, in spite of all solicitation, put both John Hickes and Alice Lisle
to death. Persons who did not know the strength of the Dean's principles
thought that he might possibly feel some resentment on this account: for
he was of no gentle or forgiving temper, and could retain during many
years a bitter remembrance of small injuries. But he was strong in his
religious and political faith: he reflected that the sufferers were
dissenters; and he submitted to the will of the Lord's Anointed not
only with patience but with complacency. He became indeed a more loving
subject than ever from the time when his brother was hanged and his
brother's benefactress beheaded. While almost all other clergymen,
appalled by the Declaration of Indulgence and by the proceedings of
the High Commission, were beginning to think that they had pushed the
doctrine of nonresistance a little too far, he was writing a vindication
of his darling legend, and trying to convince the troops at Hounslow
that, if James should be pleased to massacre them all, as Maximian had
massacred the Theban legion, for refusing to commit idolatry, it would
be their duty to pile their arms, and meekly to receive the crown of
martyrdom. To do Hickes justice, his whole conduct after the Revolution
proved that his servility had sprung neither from fear nor from
cupidity, but from mere bigotry, [472]
Jeremy Collier, who was turned out of the preachership of the Rolls,
was a man of a much higher order. He is well entitled to grateful and
respectful mention: for to his eloquence and courage is to be chiefly
ascribed the purification of our lighter literature from that foul taint
which had been contracted during the Antipuritan reaction. He was, in
the full force of the words, a good man. He was also a man of eminent
abilities, a great master of sarcasm, a great master of rhetoric, [473]
His reading, too, though undigested, was of immense extent. But his mind
was narrow: his reasoning, even when he was so fortunate as to have a
good cause to defend, was singularly futile and inconclusive; and his
brain was almost turned by pride, not personal, but professional. In
his view, a priest was the highest of human beings, except a bishop.
Reverence and submission were due from the best and greatest of the
laity to the least respectable of the clergy. However ridiculous a man
in holy orders might make himself, it was impiety to laugh at him. So
nervously sensitive indeed was Collier on this point that he thought
it profane to throw any reflection even on the ministers of false
religions. He laid it down as a rule that Muftis and Augurs ought always
to be mentioned with respect. He blamed Dryden for sneering at the
Hierophants of Apis. He praised Racine for giving dignity to the
character of a priest of Baal. He praised Corneille for not bringing
that learned and reverend divine Tiresias on the stage in the tragedy of
Oedipus. The omission, Collier owned, spoiled the dramatic effect of the
piece: but the holy function was much too solemn to be played with. Nay,
incredible as it may seem, he thought it improper in the laity to sneer
at Presbyterian preachers. Indeed his Jacobitism was little more than
one of the forms in which his zeal for the dignity of his profession
manifested itself. He abhorred the Revolution less as a rising up of
subjects against their King than as a rising up of the laity against
the sacerdotal caste. The doctrines which had been proclaimed from
the pulpit during thirty years had been treated with contempt by the
Convention. A new government had been set up in opposition to the wishes
of the spiritual peers in the House of Lords and of the priesthood
throughout the country. A secular assembly had taken upon itself to pass
a law requiring archbishops and bishops, rectors and vicars, to abjure;
on pain of deprivation, what they had been teaching all their lives.
Whatever meaner spirits might do, Collier was determined not to be led
in triumph by the victorious enemies of his order. To the last he would
confront, with the authoritative port of an ambassador of heaven, the
anger of the powers and principalities of the earth.
In parts Collier was the first man among the nonjurors. In erudition the
first place must be assigned to Henry Dodwell, who, for the unpardonable
crime of having a small estate in Mayo, had been attainted by the Popish
Parliament at Dublin. He was Camdenian Professor of Ancient History
in the University of Oxford, and had already acquired considerable
celebrity by chronological and geographical researches: but, though
he never could be persuaded to take orders, theology was his favourite
study. He was doubtless a pious and sincere man. He had perused
innumerable volumes in various languages, and had indeed acquired
more learning than his slender faculties were able to bear. The small
intellectual spark which he possessed was put out by the fuel. Some of
his books seem to have been written in a madhouse, and, though filled
with proofs of his immense reading, degrade him to the level of James
Naylor and Ludowick Muggleton. He began a dissertation intended to prove
that the law of nations was a divine revelation made to the family which
was preserved in the ark. He published a treatise in which he maintained
that a marriage between a member of the Church of England and a
dissenter was a nullity, and that the couple were, in the sight of
heaven, guilty of adultery. He defended the use of instrumental music in
public worship on the ground that the notes of the organ had a power to
counteract the influence of devils on the spinal marrow of human
beings. In his treatise on this subject, he remarked that there was
high authority for the opinion that the spinal marrow, when decomposed,
became a serpent. Whether this opinion were or were not correct, he
thought it unnecessary to decide. Perhaps, he said, the eminent men
in whose works it was found had meant only to express figuratively the
great truth, that the Old Serpent operates on us chiefly through the
spinal marrow, [474] Dodwell's speculations on the state of human beings
after death are, if possible, more extraordinary still. He tells us that
our souls are naturally mortal. Annihilation is the fate of the greater
part of mankind, of heathens, of Mahometans, of unchristened babes. The
gift of immortality is conveyed in the sacrament of baptism: but to the
efficacy of the sacrament it is absolutely necessary that the water be
poured and the words pronounced by a priest who has been ordained by a
bishop. In the natural course of things, therefore, all Presbyterians,
Independents, Baptists, and Quakers would, like the inferior animals,
cease to exist. But Dodwell was far too good a churchman to let
off dissenters so easily. He informs them that, as they have had an
opportunity of hearing the gospel preached, and might, but for their
own perverseness, have received episcopalian baptism, God will, by an
extraordinary act of power, bestow immortality on them in order that
they may be tormented for ever and ever, [475]
No man abhorred the growing latitudinarianism of those times more
than Dodwell. Yet no man had more reason to rejoice in it. For, in the
earlier part of the seventeenth century, a speculator who had dared to
affirm that the human soul is by its nature mortal, and does, in the
great majority of cases, actually die with the body, would have been
burned alive in Smithfield. Even in days which Dodwell could well
remember, such heretics as himself would have been thought fortunate if
they escaped with life, their backs flayed, their ears clipped, their
noses slit, their tongues bored through with red hot iron, and their
eyes knocked out with brickbats. With the nonjurors, however, the author
of this theory was still the great Mr. Dodwell; and some, who thought
it culpable lenity to tolerate a Presbyterian meeting, thought it at the
same time gross illiberality to blame a learned and pious Jacobite for
denying a doctrine so utterly unimportant in a religious point of view
as that of the immortality of the soul, [476]
Two other nonjurors deserve special mention, less on account of their
abilities and learning, than on account of their rare integrity, and
of their not less rare candour. These were John Kettlewell, Rector of
Coleshill, and John Fitzwilliam, Canon of Windsor. It is remarkable
that both these men had seen much of Lord Russell, and that both, though
differing from him in political opinions, and strongly disapproving
the part which he had taken in the Whig plot, had thought highly of his
character, and had been sincere mourners for his death. He had sent to
Kettlewell an affectionate message from the scaffold in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. Lady Russell, to her latest day, loved, trusted, and revered
Fitzwilliam, who, when she was a girl, had been the friend of her
father, the virtuous Southampton. The two clergymen agreed in refusing
to swear: but they, from that moment, took different paths. Kettlewell
was one of the most active members of his party: he declined no drudgery
in the common cause, provided only that it were such drudgery as did not
misbecome an honest man; and he defended his opinions in several tracts,
which give a much higher notion of his sincerity than of his judgment or
acuteness, [477] Fitzwilliam thought that he had done enough in quitting
his pleasant dwelling and garden under the shadow of Saint George's
Chapel, and in betaking himself with his books to a small lodging in an
attic. He could not with a safe conscience acknowledge William and
Mary: but he did not conceive that he was bound to be always stirring up
sedition against them; and he passed the last years of his life,
under the powerful protection of the House of Bedford, in innocent and
studious repose, [478]
Among the less distinguished divines who forfeited their benefices, were
doubtless many good men: but it is certain that the moral character of
the nonjurors, as a class, did not stand high. It seems hard to impute
laxity of principle to persons who undoubtedly made a great sacrifice
to principle. And yet experience abundantly proves that many who are
capable of making a great sacrifice, when their blood is heated by
conflict, and when the public eye is fixed upon them, are not capable of
persevering long in the daily practice of obscure virtues. It is by no
means improbable that zealots may have given their lives for a religion
which had never effectually restrained their vindictive or their
licentious passions. We learn indeed from fathers of the highest
authority that, even in the purest ages of the Church, some confessors,
who had manfully refused to save themselves from torments and death
by throwing frankincense on the altar of Jupiter, afterwards brought
scandal on the Christian name by gross fraud and debauchery, [479] For
the nonjuring divines great allowance must in fairness be made. They
were doubtless in a most trying situation. In general, a schism, which
divides a religious community, divides the laity as well as the clergy.
The seceding pastors therefore carry with them a large part of their
flocks, and are consequently assured of a maintenance. But the schism of
1689 scarcely extended beyond the clergy. The law required the rector to
take the oaths, or to quit his living: but no oath, no acknowledgment of
the title of the new King and Queen, was required from the parishioner
as a qualification for attending divine service, or for receiving the
Eucharist. Not one in fifty, therefore, of those laymen who disapproved
of the Revolution thought himself bound to quit his pew in the old
church, where the old liturgy was still read, and where the old
vestments were still worn, and to follow the ejected priest to a
conventicle, a conventicle, too, which was not protected by the
Toleration Act. Thus the new sect was a sect of preachers without
hearers; and such preachers could not make a livelihood by preaching. In
London, indeed, and in some other large towns, those vehement Jacobites,
whom nothing would satisfy but to hear King James and the Prince of
Wales prayed for by name, were sufficiently numerous to make up a few
small congregations, which met secretly, and under constant fear of
the constables, in rooms so mean that the meeting houses of the Puritan
dissenters might by comparison be called palaces. Even Collier, who had
all the qualities which attract large audiences, was reduced to be the
minister of a little knot of malecontents, whose oratory was on a second
floor in the city. But the nonjuring clergymen who were able to obtain
even a pittance by officiating at such places were very few. Of the
rest some had independent means: some lived by literature: one or two
practised physic. Thomas Wagstaffe, for example, who had been Chancellor
of Lichfield, had many patients, and made himself conspicuous by always
visiting them in full canonicals, [480] But these were exceptions.
Industrious poverty is a state by no means unfavourable to virtue: but
it is dangerous to be at once poor and idle; and most of the clergymen
who had refused to swear found themselves thrown on the world with
nothing to eat and with nothing to do. They naturally became beggars and
loungers. Considering themselves as martyrs suffering in a public cause,
they were not ashamed to ask any good churchman for a guinea. Most of
them passed their lives in running about from one Tory coffeehouse to
another, abusing the Dutch, hearing and spreading reports that within
a month His Majesty would certainly be on English ground, and wondering
who would have Salisbury when Burnet was hanged. During the session
of Parliament the lobbies and the Court of Requests were crowded with
deprived parsons, asking who was up, and what the numbers were on the
last division. Many of the ejected divines became domesticated, as
chaplains, tutors and spiritual directors, in the houses of opulent
Jacobites. In a situation of this kind, a man of pure and exalted
character, such a man as Ken was among the nonjurors, and Watts among
the nonconformists, may preserve his dignity, and may much more
than repay by his example and his instructions the benefits which he
receives. But to a person whose virtue is not high toned this way of
life is full of peril. If he is of a quiet disposition, he is in danger
of sinking into a servile, sensual, drowsy parasite. If he is of an
active and aspiring nature, it may be feared that he will become expert
in those bad arts by which, more easily than by faithful service,
retainers make themselves agreeable or formidable. To discover the weak
side of every character, to flatter every passion and prejudice, to sow
discord and jealousy where love and confidence ought to exist, to watch
the moment of indiscreet openness for the purpose of extracting secrets
important to the prosperity and honour of families, such are the
practices by which keen and restless spirits have too often avenged
themselves for the humiliation of dependence. The public voice loudly
accused many nonjurors of requiting the hospitality of their benefactors
with villany as black as that of the hypocrite depicted in the
masterpiece of Moliere. Indeed, when Cibber undertook to adapt that
noble comedy to the English stage, he made his Tartuffe a nonjuror:
and Johnson, who cannot be supposed to have been prejudiced against the
nonjurors, frankly owned that Cibber had done them no wrong, [481]
There can be no doubt that the schism caused by the oaths would have
been far more formidable, if, at this crisis, any extensive change had
been made in the government or in the ceremonial of the Established
Church. It is a highly instructive fact that those enlightened and
tolerant divines who most ardently desired such a change afterwards saw
reason to be thankful that their favourite project had failed.
Whigs and Tories had in the late Session combined to get rid of
Nottingham's Comprehension Bill by voting an address which requested the
King to refer the whole subject to the Convocation. Burnet foresaw the
effect of this vote. The whole scheme, he said, was utterly ruined,
[482] Many of his friends, however, thought differently; and among these
was Tillotson. Of all the members of the Low Church party Tillotson
stood highest in general estimation. As a preacher, he was thought
by his contemporaries to have surpassed all rivals living or dead.
Posterity has reversed this judgment. Yet Tillotson still keeps his
place as a legitimate English classic. His highest flights were indeed
far below those of Taylor, of Barrow, and of South; but his oratory was
more correct and equable than theirs. No quaint conceits, no pedantic
quotations from Talmudists and scholiasts, no mean images, buffoon
stories, scurrilous invectives, ever marred the effect of his grave and
temperate discourses. His reasoning was just sufficiently profound and
sufficiently refined to be followed by a popular audience with that
slight degree of intellectual exertion which is a pleasure. His style
is not brilliant; but it is pure, transparently clear, and equally free
from the levity and from the stiffness which disfigure the sermons of
some eminent divines of the seventeenth century. He is always serious:
yet there is about his manner a certain graceful ease which marks him
as a man who knows the world, who has lived in populous cities and in
splendid courts, and who has conversed, not only with books, but with
lawyers and merchants, wits and beauties, statesmen and princes.
The greatest charm of his compositions, however, is deriven from the
benignity and candour which appear in every line, and which shone forth
not less conspicuously in his life than in his writings.
As a theologian, Tillotson was certainly not less latitudinarian than
Burnet. Yet many of those clergymen to whom Burnet was an object of
implacable aversion spoke of Tillotson with tenderness and respect.
It is therefore not strange that the two friends should have formed
different estimates of the temper of the priesthood, and should
have expected different results from the meeting of the Convocation.
Tillotson was not displeased with the vote of the Commons. He conceived
that changes made in religious institutions by mere secular authority
might disgust many churchmen, who would yet be perfectly willing to
vote, in an ecclesiastical synod, for changes more extensive still; and
his opinion had great weight with the King, [483] It was resolved that
the Convocation should meet at the beginning of the next session
of Parliament, and that in the meantime a commission should issue
empowering some eminent divines to examine the Liturgy, the canons, and
the whole system of jurisprudence administered by the Courts Christian,
and to report on the alterations which it might be desirable to make,
[484]
Most of the Bishops who had taken the oaths were in this commission;
and with them were joined twenty priests of great note. Of the twenty
Tillotson was the most important: for he was known to speak the sense
both of the King and of the Queen. Among those Commissioners who looked
up to Tillotson as their chief were Stillingfleet, Dean of Saint Paul's,
Sharp, Dean of Norwich, Patrick, Dean of Peterborough, Tenison, Rector
of Saint Martin's, and Fowler, to whose judicious firmness was chiefly
to be ascribed the determination of the London clergy not to read the
Declaration of Indulgence.
With such men as those who have been named were mingled some divines who
belonged to the High Church party. Conspicuous among these were two
of the rulers of Oxford, Aldrich and Jane. Aldrich had recently been
appointed Dean of Christchurch, in the room of the Papist Massey, whom
James had, in direct violation of the laws, placed at the head of
that great college. The new Dean was a polite, though not a profound,
scholar, and a jovial, hospitable gentleman. He was the author of some
theological tracts which have long been forgotten, and of a compendium
of logic which is still used: but the best works which he has bequeathed
to posterity are his catches. Jane, the King's Professor of Divinity,
was a graver but a less estimable man. He had borne the chief part in
framing that decree by which his University ordered the works of Milton
and Buchanan to be publicly burned in the Schools. A few years later,
irritated and alarmed by the persecution of the Bishops and by the
confiscation of the revenues of Magdalene College, he had renounced
the doctrine of nonresistance, had repaired to the headquarters of
the Prince of Orange, and had assured His Highness that Oxford would
willingly coin her plate for the support of the war against her
oppressor. During a short time Jane was generally considered as a
Whig, and was sharply lampooned by some of his old allies. He was
so unfortunate as to have a name which was an excellent mark for the
learned punsters of his university. Several epigrams were written on the
doublefaced Janus, who, having got a professorship by looking one way,
now hoped to get a bishopric by looking another. That he hoped to get a
bishopric was perfectly true. He demanded the see of Exeter as a reward
due to his services. He was refused. The refusal convinced him that the
Church had as much to apprehend from Latitudinarianism as from Popery;
and he speedily became a Tory again, [485]
Early in October the Commissioners assembled in the Jerusalem Chamber.
At their first meeting they determined to propose that, in the public
services of the Church, lessons taken from the canonical books
of Scripture should be substituted for the lessons taken from the
Apocrypha, [486] At the second meeting a strange question was raised
by the very last person who ought to have raised it. Sprat, Bishop of
Rochester, had, without any scruple, sate, during two years, in the
unconstitutional tribunal which had, in the late reign, oppressed and
pillaged the Church of which he was a ruler. But he had now become
scrupulous, and expressed a doubt whether the commission were legal.
To a plain understanding his objections seem to be mere quibbles. The
commission gave power neither to make laws nor to administer laws,
but simply to inquire and to report. Even without a royal commission
Tillotson, Patrick, and Stillingfleet might, with perfect propriety,
have met to discuss the state and prospects of the Church, and to
consider whether it would or would not be desirable to make some
concession to the dissenters. And how could it be a crime for subjects
to do at the request of their Sovereign that which it would have been
innocent and laudable for them to do without any such request? Sprat
however was seconded by Jane. There was a sharp altercation; and Lloyd,
Bishop of Saint Asaph, who, with many good qualities, had an irritable
temper, was provoked into saying something about spies. Sprat withdrew
and came no more. His example was soon followed by Jane and Aldrich,
[487] The commissioners proceeded to take into consideration the
question of the posture at the Eucharist. It was determined to recommend
that a communicant, who, after conference with his minister, should
declare that he could not conscientiously receive the bread and wine
kneeling, might receive them sitting. Mew, Bishop of Winchester, an
honest man, but illiterate, weak even in his best days, and now fast
sinking into dotage, protested against this concession, and withdrew
from the assembly. The other members continued to apply themselves
vigorously to their task: and no more secessions took place, though
there were great differences of opinion, and though the debates were
sometimes warm. The highest churchmen who still remained were Doctor
William Beveridge, Archdeacon of Colchester, who many years later became
Bishop of Saint Asaph, and Doctor John Scott, the same who had prayed
by the deathbed of Jeffreys. The most active among the Latitudinarians
appear to have been Burnet, Fowler, and Tenison.
The baptismal service was repeatedly discussed. As to matter of form the
Commissioners were disposed to be indulgent. They were generally willing
to admit infants into the Church without sponsors and without the sign
of the cross. But the majority, after much debate, steadily refused
to soften down or explain away those words which, to all minds
not sophisticated, appear to assert the regenerating virtue of the
sacrament, [488]
As to the surplice, the Commissioners determined to recommend that a
large discretion should be left to the Bishops. Expedients were devised
by which a person who had received Presbyterian ordination might,
without admitting, either expressly or by implication, the invalidity of
that ordination, become a minister of the Church of England, [489]
The ecclesiastical calendar was carefully revised. The great festivals
were retained. But it was not thought desirable that Saint Valentine,
Saint Chad, Saint Swithin, Saint Edward King of the West Saxons, Saint
Dunstan, and Saint Alphage, should share the honours of Saint John and
Saint Paul; or that the Church should appear to class the ridiculous
fable of the discovery of the cross with facts so awfully important as
the Nativity, the Passion, the Resurrection, and the Ascension of her
Lord, [490]
The Athanasian Creed caused much perplexity. Most of the Commissioners
were equally unwilling to give up the doctrinal clauses and to retain
the damnatory clauses. Burnet, Fowler, and Tillotson were desirous to
strike this famous symbol out of the liturgy altogether. Burnet brought
forward one argument, which to himself probably did not appear to
have much weight, but which was admirably calculated to perplex his
opponents, Beveridge and Scott. The Council of Ephesus had always been
reverenced by Anglican divines as a synod which had truly represented
the whole body of the faithful, and which had been divinely guided in
the way of truth. The voice of that Council was the voice of the Holy
Catholic and Apostolic Church, not yet corrupted by superstition, or
rent asunder by schism. During more than twelve centuries the world
had not seen an ecclesiastical assembly which had an equal claim to the
respect of believers. The Council of Ephesus had, in the plainest terms,
and under the most terrible penalties, forbidden Christians to frame or
to impose on their brethren any creed other than the creed settled by
the Nicene Fathers. It should seem therefore that, if the Council of
Ephesus was really under the direction of the Holy Spirit, whoever
uses the Athanasian Creed must, in the very act of uttering an anathema
against his neighbours, bring down an anathema on his own head, [491]
In spite of the authority of the Ephesian Fathers, the majority of the
Commissioners determined to leave the Athanasian Creed in the Prayer
Book; but they proposed to add a rubric drawn up by Stillingfleet, which
declared that the damnatory clauses were to be understood to apply only
to such as obstinately denied the substance of the Christian Faith.
Orthodox believers were therefore permitted to hope that the heretic
who had honestly and humbly sought for truth would not be everlastingly
punished for having failed to find it, [492]
Tenison was intrusted with the business of examining the Liturgy and
of collecting all those expressions to which objections had been made,
either by theological or by literary critics. It was determined to
remove some obvious blemishes. And it would have been wise in the
Commissioners to stop here. Unfortunately they determined to rewrite a
great part of the Prayer Book. It was a bold undertaking; for in general
the style of that volume is such as cannot be improved. The English
Liturgy indeed gains by being compared even with those fine ancient
Liturgies from which it is to a great extent taken. The essential
qualities of devotional eloquence, conciseness, majestic simplicity,
pathetic earnestness of supplication, sobered by a profound reverence,
are common between the translations and the originals. But in the
subordinate graces of diction the originals must be allowed to be far
inferior to the translations. And the reason is obvious. The technical
phraseology of Christianity did not become a part of the Latin language
till that language had passed the age of maturity and was sinking into
barbarism. But the technical phraseology of Christianity was found in
the Anglosaxon and in the Norman French, long before the union of those
two dialects had, produced a third dialect superior to either. The Latin
of the Roman Catholic services, therefore, is Latin in the last stage
of decay. The English of our services is English in all the vigour and
suppleness of early youth. To the great Latin writers, to Terence and
Lucretius, to Cicero and Caesar, to Tacitus and Quintilian, the noblest
compositions of Ambrose and Gregory would have seemed to be, not merely
bad writing, but senseless gibberish, [493] The diction of our Book of
Common Prayer, on the other hand, has directly or indirectly contributed
to form the diction of almost every great English writer, and has
extorted the admiration of the most accomplished infidels and of the
most accomplished nonconformists, of such men as David Hume and Robert
Hall.
The style of the Liturgy, however, did not satisfy the Doctors of the
Jerusalem Chamber. They voted the Collects too short and too dry: and
Patrick was intrusted with the duty of expanding and ornamenting them.
In one respect, at least, the choice seems to have been unexceptionable;
for, if we judge by the way in which Patrick paraphrased the most
sublime Hebrew poetry, we shall probably be of opinion that, whether he
was or was not qualified to make the collects better, no man that ever
lived was more competent to make them longer, [494]
It mattered little, however, whether the recommendations of the
Commission were good or bad. They were all doomed before they were
known. The writs summoning the Convocation of the province of Canterbury
had been issued; and the clergy were every where in a state of violent
excitement. They had just taken the oaths, and were smarting from the
earnest reproofs of nonjurors, from the insolent taunts of Whigs, and
often undoubtedly from the stings of remorse. The announcement that
a Convocation was to sit for the purpose of deliberating on a plan of
comprehension roused all the strongest passions of the priest who had
just complied with the law, and was ill satisfied or half satisfied with
himself for complying. He had an opportunity of contributing to defeat
a favourite scheme of that government which had exacted from him,
under severe penalties, a submission not easily to be reconciled to his
conscience or his pride. He had an opportunity of signalising his zeal
for that Church whose characteristic doctrines he had been accused of
deserting for lucre. She was now, he conceived, threatened by a danger
as great as that of the preceding year. The Latitudinarians of 1689 were
not less eager to humble and to ruin her than the Jesuits of 1688.
The Toleration Act had done for the Dissenters quite as much as was
compatible with her dignity and security; and nothing more ought to be
conceded, not the hem of one of her vestments, not an epithet from the
beginning to the end of her Liturgy. All the reproaches which had been
thrown on the ecclesiastical commission of James were transferred to
the ecclesiastical commission of William. The two commissions indeed
had nothing but the name in common. Put the name was associated with
illegality and oppression, with the violation of dwellings and the
confiscation of freeholds, and was therefore assiduously sounded with no
small effect by the tongues of the spiteful in the ears of the ignorant.
The King too, it was said, was not sound. He conformed indeed to the
established worship; but his was a local and occasional conformity. For
some ceremonies to which High Churchmen were attached he had a distaste
which he was at no pains to conceal. One of his first acts had been
to give orders that in his private chapel the service should be said
instead of being sung; and this arrangement, though warranted by the
rubric, caused much murmuring, [495] It was known that he was so
profane as to sneer at a practice which had been sanctioned by high
ecclesiastical authority, the practice of touching for the scrofula.
This ceremony had come down almost unaltered from the darkest of the
dark ages to the time of Newton and Locke. The Stuarts frequently
dispensed the healing influences in the Banqueting House. The days on
which this miracle was to be wrought were fixed at sittings of the Privy
Council, and were solemnly notified by the clergy in all the parish
churches of the realm, [496] When the appointed time came, several
divines in full canonicals stood round the canopy of state. The surgeon
of the royal household introduced the sick. A passage from the sixteenth
chapter of the Gospel of Saint Mark was read. When the words, "They
shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover," had been
pronounced, there was a pause, and one of the sick was brought up to the
King. His Majesty stroked the ulcers and swellings, and hung round the
patient's neck a white riband to which was fastened a gold coin.
The other sufferers were then led up in succession; and, as each was
touched, the chaplain repeated the incantation, "they shall lay their
hands on the sick, and they shall recover." Then came the epistle,
prayers, antiphonies and a benediction. The service may still be found
in the prayer books of the reign of Anne. Indeed it was not till some
time after the accession of George the First that the University
of Oxford ceased to reprint the Office of Healing together with the
Liturgy. Theologians of eminent learning, ability, and virtue gave the
sanction of their authority to this mummery; [497] and, what is stranger
still, medical men of high note believed, or affected to believe, in the
balsamic virtues of the royal hand. We must suppose that every surgeon
who attended Charles the Second was a man of high repute for skill; and
more than one of the surgeons who attended Charles the Second has left
us a solemn profession of faith in the King's miraculous power. One of
them is not ashamed to tell us that the gift was communicated by the
unction administered at the coronation; that the cures were so numerous
and sometimes so rapid that they could not be attributed to any natural
cause; that the failures were to be ascribed to want of faith on the
part of the patients; that Charles once handled a scrofulous Quaker and
made him a healthy man and a sound Churchman in a moment; that, if those
who had been healed lost or sold the piece of gold which had been hung
round their necks, the ulcers broke forth again, and could be removed
only by a second touch and a second talisman. We cannot wonder that,
when men of science gravely repeated such nonsense, the vulgar should
believe it. Still less can we wonder that wretches tortured by a disease
over which natural remedies had no power should eagerly drink in tales
of preternatural cures: for nothing is so credulous as misery. The
crowds which repaired to the palace on the days of healing were immense.
Charles the Second, in the course of his reign, touched near a hundred
thousand persons. The number seems to have increased or diminished as
the king's popularity rose or fell. During that Tory reaction which
followed the dissolution of the Oxford Parliament, the press to get near
him was terrific. In 1682, he performed the rite eight thousand five
hundred times. In 1684, the throng was such that six or seven of the
sick were trampled to death. James, in one of his progresses, touched
eight hundred persons in the choir of the Cathedral of Chester. The
expense of the ceremony was little less than ten thousand pounds a year,
and would have been much greater but for the vigilance of the royal
surgeons, whose business it was to examine the applicants, and to
distinguish those who came for the cure from those who came for the
gold, [498]
William had too much sense to be duped, and too much honesty to bear a
part in what he knew to be an imposture. "It is a silly superstition,"
he exclaimed, when he heard that, at the close of Lent, his palace was
besieged by a crowd of the sick: "Give the poor creatures some money,
and send them away." [499] On one single occasion he was importuned into
laying his hand on a patient. "God give you better health," he said,
"and more sense." The parents of scrofulous children cried out against
his cruelty: bigots lifted up their hands and eyes in horror at his
impiety: Jacobites sarcastically praised him for not presuming
to arrogate to himself a power which belonged only to legitimate
sovereigns; and even some Whigs thought that he acted unwisely in
treating with such marked contempt a superstition which had a strong
hold on the vulgar mind: but William was not to be moved, and was
accordingly set down by many High Churchmen as either an infidel or a
puritan, [500]
The chief cause, however, which at this time made even the most moderate
plan of comprehension hateful to the priesthood still remains to be
mentioned. What Burnet had foreseen and foretold had come to pass. There
was throughout the clerical profession a strong disposition to retaliate
on the Presbyterians of England the wrongs of the Episcopalians of
Scotland. It could not be denied that even the highest churchmen had,
in the summer of 1688, generally declared themselves willing to give
up many things for the sake of union. But it was said, and not without
plausibility, that what was passing on the other side of the Border
proved union on any reasonable terms to be impossible. With what face,
it was asked, can those who will make no concession to us where we are
weak, blame us for refusing to make any concession to them where we are
strong? We cannot judge correctly of the principles and feelings of a
sect from the professions which it makes in a time of feebleness and
suffering. If we would know what the Puritan spirit really is, we must
observe the Puritan when he is dominant. He was dominant here in the
last generation; and his little finger was thicker than the loins of the
prelates. He drove hundreds of quiet students from their cloisters, and
thousands of respectable divines from their parsonages, for the crime of
refusing to sign his Covenant. No tenderness was shown to learning, to
genius or to sanctity. Such men as Hall and Sanderson, Chillingworth and
Hammond, were not only plundered, but flung into prisons, and exposed
to all the rudeness of brutal gaolers. It was made a crime to read fine
psalms and prayers bequeathed to the faithful by Ambrose and Chrysostom.
At length the nation became weary of the reign of the saints. The fallen
dynasty and the fallen hierarchy were restored. The Puritan was in his
turn subjected to disabilities and penalties; and he immediately found
out that it was barbarous to punish men for entertaining conscientious
scruples about a garb, about a ceremony, about the functions of
ecclesiastical officers. His piteous complaints and his arguments in
favour of toleration had at length imposed on many well meaning persons.
Even zealous churchmen had begun to entertain a hope that the severe
discipline which he had undergone had made him candid, moderate,
charitable. Had this been really so, it would doubtless have been our
duty to treat his scruples with extreme tenderness. But, while we were
considering what we could do to meet his wishes in England, he had
obtained ascendency in Scotland; and, in an instant, he was all himself
again, bigoted, insolent, and cruel. Manses had been sacked; churches
shut up; prayer books burned; sacred garments torn; congregations
dispersed by violence; priests hustled, pelted, pilloried, driven forth,
with their wives and babes, to beg or die of hunger. That these outrages
were to be imputed, not to a few lawless marauders, but to the great
body of the Presbyterians of Scotland, was evident from the fact
that the government had not dared either to inflict punishment on the
offenders or to grant relief to the sufferers. Was it not fit then that
the Church of England should take warning? Was it reasonable to ask
her to mutilate her apostolical polity and her beautiful ritual for the
purpose of conciliating those who wanted nothing but power to rabble her
as they had rabbled her sister? Already these men had obtained a boon
which they ill deserved, and which they never would have granted.
They worshipped God in perfect security. Their meeting houses were
as effectually protected as the choirs of our cathedrals. While
no episcopal minister could, without putting his life in jeopardy,
officiate in Ayrshire or Renfrewshire, a hundred Presbyterian ministers
preached unmolested every Sunday in Middlesex. The legislature had,
with a generosity perhaps imprudent, granted toleration to the most
intolerant of men; and with toleration it behoved them to be content.
Thus several causes conspired to inflame the parochial clergy against
the scheme of comprehension. Their temper was such that, if the plan
framed in the Jerusalem Chamber had been directly submitted to them,
it would have been rejected by a majority of twenty to one. But in
the Convocation their weight bore no proportion to their number.
The Convocation has, happily for our country, been so long utterly
insignificant that, till a recent period, none but curious students
cared to inquire how it was constituted; and even now many persons, not
generally ill informed, imagine it to have been a council representing
the Church of England. In truth the Convocation so often mentioned
in our ecclesiastical history is merely the synod of the Province of
Canterbury, and never had a right to speak in the name of the whole
clerical body. The Province of York had also its convocation: but,
till the eighteenth century was far advanced, the Province of York was
generally so poor, so rude, and so thinly peopled, that, in political
importance, it could hardly be considered as more than a tenth part of
the kingdom. The sense of the Southern clergy was therefore popularly
considered as the sense of the whole profession. When the formal
concurrence of the Northern clergy was required, it seems to have been
given as a matter of course. Indeed the canons passed by the Convocation
of Canterbury in 1604 were ratified by James the First, and were ordered
to be strictly observed in every part of the kingdom, two years before
the Convocation of York went through the form of approving them. Since
these ecclesiastical councils became mere names, a great change has
taken place in the relative position of the two Archbishoprics. In all
the elements of power, the region beyond Trent is now at least a third
part of England. When in our own time the representative system was
adjusted to the altered state of the country, almost all the small
boroughs which it was necessary to disfranchise were in the south. Two
thirds of the new members given to great provincial towns were given
to the north. If therefore any English government should suffer the
Convocations, as now constituted, to meet for the despatch of business,
two independent synods would be legislating at the same time for one
Church. It is by no means impossible that one assembly might adopt
canons which the other might reject, that one assembly might condemn as
heretical propositions which the other might hold to be orthodox, [501]
In the seventeenth century no such danger was apprehended. So little
indeed was the Convocation of York then considered, that the two Houses
of Parliament had, in their address to William, spoken only of one
Convocation, which they called the Convocation of the Clergy of the
Kingdom.
The body which they thus not very accurately designated is divided into
two Houses. The Upper House is composed of the Bishops of the Province
of Canterbury. The Lower House consisted, in 1689, of a hundred and
forty-four members. Twenty-two Deans and fifty-four Archdeacons sate
there in virtue of their offices. Twenty-four divines sate as proctors
for twenty-four chapters. Only forty-four proctors were elected by
the eight thousand parish priests of the twenty-two dioceses. These
forty-four proctors, however, were almost all of one mind. The elections
had in former times been conducted in the most quiet and decorous
manner. But on this occasion the canvassing was eager: the contests were
sharp: Rochester, the leader of the party which in the House of Lords
had opposed the Comprehension-Bill, and his brother Clarendon, who had
refused to take the oaths, had gone to Oxford, the head quarters of that
party, for the purpose of animating and organizing the opposition, [502]
The representatives of the parochial clergy must have been men whose
chief distinction was their zeal: for in the whole list can be found not
a single illustrious name, and very few names which are now known even
to curious students, [503] The official members of the Lower House,
among whom were many distinguished scholars and preachers, seem to have
been not very unequally divided.
During the summer of 1689 several high ecclesiastical dignities became
vacant, and were bestowed on divines who were sitting in the Jerusalem
Chamber. It has already been mentioned that Thomas, Bishop of Worcester,
died just before the day fixed for taking the oaths. Lake, Bishop of
Chichester, lived just long enough to refuse them, and with his last
breath declared that he would maintain even at the stake the doctrine
of indefeasible hereditary right. The see of Chichester was filled by
Patrick, that of Worcester by Stillingfleet; and the deanery of
Saint Paul's which Stillingfleet quitted was given to Tillotson. That
Tillotson was not raised to the episcopal bench excited some surprise.
But in truth it was because the government held his services in the
highest estimation that he was suffered to remain a little longer a
simple presbyter. The most important office in the Convocation was that
of Prolocutor of the Lower House. The Prolocutor was to be chosen by the
members: and the only moderate man who had a chance of being chosen was
Tillotson. It had in fact been already determined that he should be the
next Archbishop of Canterbury. When he went to kiss hands for his new
deanery he warmly thanked the King. "Your Majesty has now set me at ease
for the remainder of my life." "No such thing, Doctor, I assure you,"
said William. He then plainly intimated that, whenever Sancroft should
cease to fill the highest ecclesiastical station, Tillotson would
succeed to it. Tillotson stood aghast; for his nature was quiet and
unambitious: he was beginning to feel the infirmities of old age: he
cared little for money: of worldly advantages those which he most
valued were an honest fame and the general good will of mankind: those
advantages he already possessed; and he could not but be aware that, if
he became primate, he should incur the bitterest hatred of a powerful
party, and should become a mark for obloquy, from which his gentle
and sensitive nature shrank as from the rack or the wheel. William was
earnest and resolute. "It is necessary," he said, "for my service; and
I must lay on your conscience the responsibility of refusing me your
help." Here the conversation ended. It was, indeed, not necessary that
the point should be immediately decided; for several months were still
to elapse before the Archbishopric would be vacant.
Tillotson bemoaned himself with unfeigned anxiety and sorrow to Lady
Russell, whom, of all human beings, he most honoured and trusted, [504]
He hoped, he said, that he was not inclined to shrink from the service
of the Church; but he was convinced that his present line of service was
that in which he could be most useful. If he should be forced to accept
so high and so invidious a post as the primacy, he should soon sink
under the load of duties and anxieties too heavy for his strength. His
spirits, and with his spirits his abilities, would fail him. He gently
complained of Burnet, who loved and admired him with a truly generous
heartiness, and who had laboured to persuade both the King and
Queen that there was in England only one man fit for the highest
ecclesiastical dignity. "The Bishop of Salisbury," said Tillotson, "is
one of the best and worst friends that I know."
Nothing that was not a secret to Burnet was likely to be long a secret
to any body. It soon began to be whispered about that the King had
fixed on Tillotson to fill the place of Sancroft. The news caused cruel
mortification to Compton, who, not unnaturally, conceived that his own
claims were unrivalled. He had educated the Queen and her sister; and
to the instruction which they had received from him might fairly be
ascribed, at least in part, the firmness with which, in spite of the
influence of their father, they had adhered to the established religion.
Compton was, moreover, the only prelate who, during the late reign, had
raised his voice in Parliament against the dispensing power, the only
prelate who had been suspended by the High Commission, the only prelate
who had signed the invitation to the Prince of Orange, the only prelate
who had actually taken arms against Popery and arbitrary power, the
only prelate, save one, who had voted against a Regency. Among the
ecclesiastics of the Province of Canterbury who had taken the oaths,
he was highest in rank. He had therefore held, during some months, a
vicarious primacy: he had crowned the new Sovereigns: he had consecrated
the new Bishops: he was about to preside in the Convocation. It may be
added, that he was the son of an Earl; and that no person of equally
high birth then sate, or had ever sate, since the Reformation, on the
episcopal bench. That the government should put over his head a priest
of his own diocese, who was the son of a Yorkshire clothier, and who was
distinguished only by abilities and virtues, was provoking; and Compton,
though by no means a badhearted man, was much provoked. Perhaps his
vexation was increased by the reflection that he had, for the sake of
those by whom he was thus slighted, done some things which had strained
his conscience and sullied his reputation, that he had at one time
practised the disingenuous arts of a diplomatist, and at another time
given scandal to his brethren by wearing the buff coat and jackboots of
a trooper. He could not accuse Tillotson of inordinate ambition. But,
though Tillotson was most unwilling to accept the Archbishopric himself,
he did not use his influence in favour of Compton, but earnestly
recommended Stillingfleet as the man fittest to preside over the Church
of England. The consequence was that, on the eve of the meeting of
Convocation, the Bishop who was to be at the head of the Upper House
became the personal enemy of the presbyter whom the government wished to
see at the head of the Lower House. This quarrel added new difficulties
to difficulties which little needed any addition, [505]
It was not till the twentieth of November that the Convocation met for
the despatch of business. The place of meeting had generally been Saint
Paul's Cathedral. But Saint Paul's Cathedral was slowly rising from
its ruins; and, though the dome already towered high above the hundred
steeples of the City, the choir had not yet been opened for public
worship. The assembly therefore sate at Westminster, [506] A table was
placed in the beautiful chapel of Henry the Seventh. Compton was in
the chair. On his right and left those suffragans of Canterbury who
had taken the oaths were ranged in gorgeous vestments of scarlet
and miniver. Below the table was assembled the crowd of presbyters.
Beveridge preached a Latin sermon, in which he warmly eulogized the
existing system, and yet declared himself favourable to a moderate
reform. Ecclesiastical laws were, he said, of two kinds. Some laws were
fundamental and eternal: they derived their authority from God; nor
could any religious community repeal them without ceasing to form a part
of the universal Church. Other laws were local and temporary. They had
been framed by human wisdom, and might be altered by human wisdom. They
ought not indeed to be altered without grave reasons. But surely, at
that moment, such reasons were not wanting. To unite a scattered flock
in one fold under one shepherd, to remove stumbling blocks from the path
of the weak, to reconcile hearts long estranged, to restore spiritual
discipline to its primitive vigour, to place the best and purest of
Christian societies on a base broad enough to stand against all the
attacks of earth and hell, these were objects which might well justify
some modification, not of Catholic institutions, but of national or
provincial usages, [507]
The Lower House, having heard this discourse, proceeded to appoint
a Prolocutor. Sharp, who was probably put forward by the members
favourable to a comprehension as one of the highest churchmen among
them, proposed Tillotson. Jane, who had refused to act under the
Royal Commission, was proposed on the other side. After some animated
discussion, Jane was elected by fifty-five votes to twenty-eight, [508]
The Prolocutor was formally presented to the Bishop of London, and
made, according to ancient usage, a Latin oration. In this oration the
Anglican Church was extolled as the most perfect of all institutions.
There was a very intelligible intimation that no change whatever in her
doctrine, her discipline, or her ritual was required; and the discourse
concluded with a most significant sentence. Compton, when a few months
before he exhibited himself in the somewhat unclerical character of
a colonel of horse, had ordered the colours of his regiment to be
embroidered with the well known words "Nolumus leges Angliae mutari";
and with these words Jane closed his peroration, [509]
Still the Low Churchmen did not relinquish all hope. They very wisely
determined to begin by proposing to substitute lessons taken from the
canonical books for the lessons taken from the Apocrypha. It should seem
that this was a suggestion which, even if there had not been a single
dissenter in the kingdom, might well have been received with favour. For
the Church had, in her sixth Article, declared that the canonical books
were, and that the Apocryphal books were not, entitled to be called Holy
Scriptures, and to be regarded as the rule of faith. Even this reform,
however, the High Churchmen were determined to oppose. They asked,
in pamphlets which covered the counters of Paternoster Row and Little
Britain, why country congregations should be deprived of the pleasure of
hearing about the ball of pitch with which Daniel choked the dragon,
and about the fish whose liver gave forth such a fume as sent the devil
flying from Ecbatana to Egypt. And were there not chapters of the
Wisdom of the Son of Sirach far more interesting and edifying than
the genealogies and muster rolls which made up a large part of the
Chronicles of the Jewish Kings and of the narrative of Nehemiah?
No grave divine however would have liked to maintain, in Henry the
Seventh's Chapel, that it was impossible to find, in many hundreds of
pages dictated by the Holy Spirit, fifty or sixty chapters more edifying
than any thing which could be extracted from the works of the most
respectable uninspired moralist or historian. The leaders of the
majority therefore determined to shun a debate in which they must have
been reduced to a disagreeable dilemma. Their plan was, not to
reject the recommendations of the Commissioners, but to prevent those
recommendations from being discussed; and with this view a system of
tactics was adopted which proved successful.
The law, as it had been interpreted during a long course of years,
prohibited the Convocation from even deliberating on any ecclesiastical
ordinance without a previous warrant from the Crown. Such a warrant,
sealed with the great seal, was brought in form to Henry the Seventh's
Chapel by Nottingham. He at the same time delivered a message from the
King. His Majesty exhorted the assembly to consider calmly and without
prejudice the recommendations of the Commission, and declared that
he had nothing in view but the honour and advantage of the Protestant
religion in general, and of the Church of England in particular, [510]
The Bishops speedily agreed on an address of thanks for the royal
message, and requested the concurrence of the Lower House. Jane and
his adherents raised objection after objection. First they claimed the
privilege of presenting a separate address. When they were forced to
waive this claim, they refused to agree to any expression which imported
that the Church of England had any fellowship with any other Protestant
community. Amendments and reasons were sent backward and forward.
Conferences were held at which Burnet on one side and Jane on the other
were the chief speakers. At last, with great difficulty, a compromise
was made; and an address, cold and ungracious compared with that which
the Bishops had framed, was presented to the King in the Banqueting
House. He dissembled his vexation, returned a kind answer, and intimated
a hope that the assembly would now at length proceed to consider the
great question of Comprehension, [511]
Such however was not the intention of the leaders of the Lower House.
As soon as they were again in Henry the Seventh's Chapel, one of them
raised a debate about the nonjuring bishops. In spite of the unfortunate
scruple which those prelates entertained, they were learned and holy
men. Their advice might, at this conjuncture, be of the greatest service
to the Church. The Upper House was hardly an Upper House in the absence
of the Primate and of many of his most respectable suffragans. Could
nothing be done to remedy this evil? [512] Another member complained of
some pamphlets which had lately appeared, and in which the Convocation
was not treated with proper deference. The assembly took fire. Was it
not monstrous that this heretical and schismatical trash should be cried
by the hawkers about the streets, and should be exposed to sale in the
booths of Westminster Hall, within a hundred yards of the Prolocutor's
chair? The work of mutilating the Liturgy and of turning cathedrals into
conventicles might surely be postponed till the Synod had taken measures
to protect its own freedom and dignity. It was then debated how the
printing of such scandalous books should be prevented. Some were
for indictments, some for ecclesiastical censures, [513] In such
deliberations as these week after week passed away. Not a single
proposition tending to a Comprehension had been even discussed.
Christmas was approaching. At Christmas there was to be a recess. The
Bishops were desirous that, during the recess, a committee should sit to
prepare business. The Lower House refused to consent, [514] That House,
it was now evident, was fully determined not even to enter on the
consideration of any part of the plan which had been framed by the Royal
Commissioners. The proctors of the dioceses were in a worse humour than
when they first came up to Westminster. Many of them had probably never
before passed a week in the capital, and had not been aware how great
the difference was between a town divine and a country divine. The sight
of the luxuries and comforts enjoyed by the popular preachers of the
city raised, not unnaturally, some sore feeling in a Lincolnshire or
Caernarvonshire vicar who was accustomed to live as hardly as small
farmer. The very circumstance that the London clergy were generally for
a comprehension made the representatives of the rural clergy obstinate
on the other side, [515] The prelates were, as a body, sincerely
desirous that some concession might be made to the nonconformists. But
the prelates were utterly unable to curb the mutinous democracy. They
were few in number. Some of them were objects of extreme dislike to the
parochial clergy. The President had not the full authority of a primate;
nor was he sorry to see those who had, as he concerned, used him ill,
thwarted and mortified. It was necessary to yield. The Convocation
was prorogued for six weeks. When those six weeks had expired, it was
prorogued again; and many years elapsed before it was permitted to
transact business.
So ended, and for ever, the hope that the Church of England might be
induced to make some concession to the scruples of the nonconformists. A
learned and respectable minority of the clerical order relinquished
that hope with deep regret. Yet in a very short time even Barnet and
Tillotson found reason to believe that their defeat was really an
escape, and that victory would have been a disaster. A reform, such as,
in the days of Elizabeth, would have united the great body of English
Protestants, would, in the days of William, have alienated more hearts
than it would have conciliated. The schism which the oaths had produced
was, as yet, insignificant. Innovations such as those proposed by the
Royal Commissioners would have given it a terrible importance. As yet
a layman, though he might think the proceedings of the Convention
unjustifiable, and though he might applaud the virtue of the nonjuring
clergy, still continued to sit under the accustomed pulpit, and to kneel
at the accustomed altar. But if, just at this conjuncture, while his
mind was irritated by what he thought the wrong done to his favourite
divines, and while he was perhaps doubting whether he ought not to
follow them, his ears and eyes had been shocked by changes in the
worship to which he was fondly attached, if the compositions of
the doctors of the Jerusalem Chamber had taken the place of the old
collects, if he had seen clergymen without surplices carrying the
chalice and the paten up and down the aisle to seated communicants, the
tie which bound him to the Established Church would have been dissolved.
He would have repaired to some nonjuring assembly, where the service
which he loved was performed without mutilation. The new sect, which
as yet consisted almost exclusively of priests, would soon have been
swelled by numerous and large congregations; and in those congregations
would have been found a much greater proportion of the opulent, of the
highly descended, and of the highly educated, than any other body of
dissenters could show. The Episcopal schismatics, thus reinforced, would
probably have been as formidable to the new King and his successors as
ever the Puritan schismatics had been to the princes of the House of
Stuart. It is an indisputable and a most instructive fact, that we are,
in a great measure, indebted for the civil and religious liberty which
we enjoy to the pertinacity with which the High Church party, in
the Convocation of 1689, refused even to deliberate on any plan of
Comprehension, [516]
CHAPTER XV
The Parliament meets; Retirement of Halifax--Supplies voted--The Bill
of Rights passed--Inquiry into Naval Abuses--Inquiry into the Conduct of
the Irish War--Reception of Walker in England--Edmund Ludlow--Violence
of the Whigs--Impeachments--Committee of Murder--Malevolence of John
Hampden--The Corporation Bill--Debates on the Indemnity Bill--Case of
Sir Robert Sawyer--The King purposes to retire to Holland--He is induced
to change his Intention; the Whigs oppose his going to Ireland--He
prorogues the Parliament--Joy of the Tories--Dissolution and General
Election--Changes in the Executive Departments--Caermarthen Chief
Minister--Sir John Lowther--Rise and Progress of Parliamentary
Corruption in England--Sir John Trevor--Godolphin retires; Changes at
the Admiralty--Changes in the Commissions of Lieutenancy--Temper of
the Whigs; Dealings of some Whigs with Saint Germains; Shrewsbury;
Ferguson--Hopes of the Jacobites--Meeting of the new Parliament;
Settlement of the Revenue--Provision for the Princess of Denmark--Bill
declaring the Acts of the preceding Parliament valid--Debate on the
Changes in the Lieutenancy of London--Abjuration Bill--Act of Grace--The
Parliament prorogued; Preparations for the first War--Administration of
James at Dublin--An auxiliary Force sent from France to Ireland--Plan
of the English Jacobites; Clarendon, Aylesbury,
Dartmouth--Penn--Preston--The Jacobites betrayed by Fuller--Crone
arrested--Difficulties of William--Conduct of Shrewsbury--The Council of
Nine--Conduct of Clarendon--Penn held to Bail--Interview between William
and Burnet; William sets out for Ireland--Trial of Crone--Danger of
Invasion and Insurrection; Tourville's Fleet in the--Channel--Arrests
of suspected Persons--Torrington ordered to give Battle to
Tourville--Battle of Beachy Head--Alarm in London; Battle of
Fleurus--Spirit of the Nation--Conduct of Shrewsbury
WHILE the Convocation was wrangling on one side of Old Palace Yard, the
Parliament was wrangling even more fiercely on the other. The Houses,
which had separated on the twentieth of August, had met again on the
nineteenth of October. On the day of meeting an important change struck
every eye. Halifax was no longer on the woolsack. He had reason to
expect that the persecution, from which in the preceding session he had
narrowly escaped, would be renewed. The events which had taken place
during the recess, and especially the disasters of the campaign in
Ireland, had furnished his persecutors with fresh means of annoyance.
His administration had not been successful; and, though his failure was
partly to be ascribed to causes against which no human wisdom could have
contended, it was also partly to be ascribed to the peculiarities of his
temper and of his intellect. It was certain that a large party in the
Commons would attempt to remove him; and he could no longer depend
on the protection of his master. It was natural that a prince who was
emphatically a man of action should become weary of a minister who was a
man of speculation. Charles, who went to Council as he went to the play,
solely to be amused, was delighted with an adviser who had a hundred
pleasant and ingenious things to say on both sides of every question.
But William had no taste for disquisitions and disputations, however
lively and subtle, which occupied much time and led to no conclusion. It
was reported, and is not improbable, that on one occasion he could
not refrain from expressing in sharp terms at the council board his
impatience at what seemed to him a morbid habit of indecision, [517]
Halifax, mortified by his mischances in public life, dejected by
domestic calamities, disturbed by apprehensions of an impeachment, and
no longer supported by royal favour, became sick of public life,
and began to pine for the silence and solitude of his seat in
Nottinghamshire, an old Cistercian Abbey buried deep among woods. Early
in October it was known that he would no longer preside in the Upper
House. It was at the same time whispered as a great secret that he meant
to retire altogether from business, and that he retained the Privy Seal
only till a successor should be named. Chief Baron Atkyns was appointed
Speaker of the Lords, [518]
On some important points there appeared to be no difference of opinion
in the legislature. The Commons unanimously resolved that they would
stand by the King in the work of reconquering Ireland, and that they
would enable him to prosecute with vigour the war against France, [519]
With equal unanimity they voted an extraordinary supply of two millions,
[520] It was determined that the greater part of this sum should be
levied by an assessment on real property. The rest was to be raised
partly by a poll tax, and partly by new duties on tea, coffee and
chocolate. It was proposed that a hundred thousand pounds should be
exacted from the Jews; and this proposition was at first favourably
received by the House: but difficulties arose. The Jews presented a
petition in which they declared that they could not afford to pay such a
sum, and that they would rather leave the kingdom than stay there to
be ruined. Enlightened politicians could not but perceive that special
taxation, laid on a small class which happens to be rich, unpopular and
defenceless, is really confiscation, and must ultimately improverish
rather than enrich the State. After some discussion, the Jew tax was
abandoned, [521]
The Bill of Rights, which, in the last Session, had, after causing
much altercation between the Houses, been suffered to drop, was again
introduced, and was speedily passed. The peers no longer insisted that
any person should be designated by name as successor to the crown, if
Mary, Anne and William should all die without posterity. During eleven
years nothing more was heard of the claims of the House of Brunswick.
The Bill of Rights contained some provisions which deserve special
mention. The Convention had resolved that it was contrary to the
interest of the kingdom to be governed by a Papist, but had prescribed
no test which could ascertain whether a prince was or was not a Papist.
The defect was now supplied. It was enacted that every English sovereign
should, in full Parliament, and at the coronation, repeat and subscribe
the Declaration against Transubstantiation.
It was also enacted that no person who should marry a Papist should be
capable of reigning in England, and that, if the Sovereign should marry
a Papist, the subject should be absolved from allegiance. Burnet boasts
that this part of the Bill of Rights was his work. He had little reason
to boast: for a more wretched specimen of legislative workmanship will
not easily be found. In the first place, no test is prescribed. Whether
the consort of a Sovereign has taken the oath of supremacy, has signed
the declaration against transubstantiation, has communicated according
to the ritual of the Church of England, are very simple issues of
fact. But whether the consort of a Sovereign is or is not a Papist is
a question about which people may argue for ever. What is a Papist?
The word is not a word of definite signification either in law or in
theology. It is merely a popular nickname, and means very different
things in different mouths. Is every person a Papist who is willing to
concede to the Bishop of Rome a primacy among Christian prelates? If so,
James the First, Charles the First, Laud, Heylyn, were Papists, [522] Or
is the appellation to be confined to persons who hold the ultramontane
doctrines touching the authority of the Holy See? If so, neither Bossuet
nor Pascal was a Papist.
What again is the legal effect of the words which absolve the subject
from his allegiance? Is it meant that a person arraigned for high
treason may tender evidence to prove that the Sovereign has married
a Papist? Would Whistlewood, for example, have been entitled to an
acquittal, if he could have proved that King George the Fourth had
married Mrs. Fitzherbert, and that Mrs. Fitzherbert was a Papist? It
is not easy to believe that any tribunal would have gone into such a
question. Yet to what purpose is it to enact that, in a certain case,
the subject shall be absolved from his allegiance, if the tribunal
before which he is tried for a violation of his allegiance is not to go
into the question whether that case has arisen?
The question of the dispensing power was treated in a very different
manner, was fully considered, and was finally settled in the only way in
which it could be settled. The Declaration of Right had gone no further
than to pronounce that the dispensing power, as of late exercised, was
illegal. That a certain dispensing power belonged to the Crown was a
proposition sanctioned by authorities and precedents of which even Whig
lawyers could not speak without respect; but as to the precise extent
of this power hardly any two jurists were agreed; and every attempt
to frame a definition had failed. At length by the Bill of Rights the
anomalous prerogative which had caused so many fierce disputes was
absolutely and for ever taken away, [523]
In the House of Commons there was, as might have been expected, a series
of sharp debates on the misfortunes of the autumn. The negligence
or corruption of the Navy Board, the frauds of the contractors, the
rapacity of the captains of the King's ships, the losses of the London
merchants, were themes for many keen speeches. There was indeed reason
for anger. A severe inquiry, conducted by William in person at the
Treasury, had just elicited the fact that much of the salt with which
the meat furnished to the fleet had been cured had been by accident
mixed with galls such as are used for the purpose of making ink.
The victuallers threw the blame on the rats, and maintained that the
provisions thus seasoned, though certainly disagreeable to the palate,
were not injurious to health, [524] The Commons were in no temper
to listen to such excuses. Several persons who had been concerned
in cheating the government and poisoning the sailors were taken into
custody by the Serjeant, [525] But no censure was passed on the chief
offender, Torrington, nor does it appear that a single voice was raised
against him. He had personal friends in both parties. He had many
popular qualities. Even his vices were not those which excite public
hatred. The people readily forgave a courageous openhanded sailor for
being too fond of his bottle, his boon companions and his mistresses and
did not sufficiently consider how great must be the perils of a country
of which the safety depends on a man sunk in indolence, stupified by
wine, enervated by licentiousness, ruined by prodigality, and enslaved
by sycophants and harlots.
The sufferings of the army in Ireland called forth strong expressions
of sympathy and indignation. The Commons did justice to the firmness
and wisdom with which Schomberg had conducted the most arduous of all
campaigns. That he had not achieved more was attributed chiefly to the
villany of the Commissariat. The pestilence itself it was said, would
have been no serious calamity if it had not been aggravated by the
wickedness of man. The disease had generally spared those who had warm
garments and bedding, and had swept away by thousands those who were
thinly clad and who slept on the wet ground. Immense sums had been drawn
out of the Treasury: yet the pay of the troops was in arrear. Hundreds
of horses, tens of thousands of shoes, had been paid for by the public:
yet the baggage was left behind for want of beasts to draw it; and the
soldiers were marching barefoot through the mire. Seventeen hundred
pounds had been charged to the government for medicines: yet the common
drugs with which every apothecary in the smallest market town was
provided were not to be found in the plaguestricken camp. The cry
against Shales was loud. An address was carried to the throne,
requesting that he might be sent for to England, and that his accounts
and papers might be secured. With this request the King readily
complied; but the Whig majority was not satisfied. By whom had Shales
been recommended for so important a place as that of Commissary General?
He had been a favourite at Whitehall in the worst times. He had been
zealous for the Declaration of Indulgence. Why had this creature of
James been entrusted with the business of catering for the army of
William? It was proposed by some of those who were bent on driving all
Tories and Trimmers from office to ask His Majesty by whose advice a
man so undeserving of the royal confidence had been employed. The most
moderate and judicious Whigs pointed out the indecency and impolicy
of interrogating the King, and of forcing him either to accuse his
ministers or to quarrel with the representatives of his people. "Advise
His Majesty, if you will," said Somers, "to withdraw his confidence
from the counsellors who recommended this unfortunate appointment. Such
advice, given, as we should probably give it, unanimously, must have
great weight with him. But do not put to him a question such as no
private gentleman would willingly answer. Do not force him, in defence
of his own personal dignity, to protect the very men whom you wish him
to discard." After a hard fight of two days, and several divisions, the
address was carried by a hundred and ninety five votes to a hundred and
forty six, [526] The King, as might have been foreseen, coldly refused
to turn informer; and the House did not press him further, [527] To
another address, which requested that a Commission might be sent to
examine into the state of things in Ireland, William returned a very
gracious answer, and desired the Commons to name the Commissioners. The
Commons, not to be outdone in courtesy, excused themselves, and left it
to His Majesty's wisdom to select the fittest persons, [528]
In the midst of the angry debates on the Irish war a pleasing incident
produced for a moment goodhumour and unanimity. Walker had arrived in
London, and had been received there with boundless enthusiasm. His
face was in every print shop. Newsletters describing his person and his
demeanour were sent to every corner of the kingdom. Broadsides of
prose and verse written in his praise were cried in every street. The
Companies of London feasted him splendidly in their halls. The common
people crowded to gaze on him wherever he moved, and almost stifled him
with rough caresses. Both the Universities offered him the degree of
Doctor of Divinity. Some of his admirers advised him to present himself
at the palace in that military garb in which he had repeatedly headed
the sallies of his fellow townsmen. But, with a better judgment than
he sometimes showed, he made his appearance at Hampton Court in the
peaceful robe of his profession, was most graciously received, and was
presented with an order for five thousand pounds. "And do not think,
Doctor," William said, with great benignity, "that I offer you this sum
as payment for your services. I assure you that I consider your claims
on me as not at all diminished." [529]
It is true that amidst the general applause the voice of detraction made
itself heard. The defenders of Londonderry were men of two nations
and of two religions. During the siege, hatred of the Irishry had
held together all Saxons; and hatred of Popery had held together all
Protestants. But, when the danger was over, the Englishman and the
Scotchman, the Episcopalian and the Presbyterian, began to wrangle about
the distribution of praises and rewards. The dissenting preachers, who
had zealously assisted Walker in the hour of peril, complained that,
in the account which he published of the siege, he had, though
acknowledging that they had done good service, omitted to mention
their names. The complaint was just; and, had it been made in language
becoming Christians and gentlemen, would probably have produced a
considerable effect on the public mind. But Walker's accusers in their
resentment disregarded truth and decency, used scurrilous language,
brought calumnious accusations which were triumphantly refuted, and
thus threw away the advantage which they had possessed. Walker defended
himself with moderation and candour. His friends fought his battle with
vigour, and retaliated keenly on his assailants. At Edinburgh perhaps
the public opinion might have been against him. But in London the
controversy seems only to have raised his character. He was regarded
as an Anglican divine of eminent merit, who, after having heroically
defended his religion against an army of Popish Rapparees, was rabbled
by a mob of Scotch Covenanters, [530]
He presented to the Commons a petition setting forth the destitute
condition to which the widows and orphans of some brave men who had
fallen during the siege were now reduced. The Commons instantly passed
a vote of thanks to him, and resolved to present to the King an address
requesting that ten thousand pounds might be distributed among the
families whose sufferings had been so touchingly described. The next day
it was rumoured about the benches that Walker was in the lobby. He was
called in. The Speaker, with great dignity and grace, informed him that
the House had made haste to comply with his request, commended him
in high terms for having taken on himself to govern and defend a city
betrayed by its proper governors and defenders, and charged him to tell
those who had fought under him that their fidelity and valour would
always be held in grateful remembrance by the Commons of England, [531]
About the same time the course of parliamentary business was diversified
by another curious and interesting episode, which, like the former,
sprang out of the events of the Irish war. In the preceding spring,
when every messenger from Ireland brought evil tidings, and when the
authority of James was acknowledged in every part of that kingdom,
except behind the ramparts of Londonderry and on the banks of Lough
Erne, it was natural that Englishmen should remember with how terrible
an energy the great Puritan warriors of the preceding generation had
crushed the insurrection of the Celtic race. The names of Cromwell, of
Ireton, and of the other chiefs of the conquering army, were in many
mouths. One of those chiefs, Edmund Ludlow, was still living. At
twenty-two he had served as a volunteer in the parliamentary army; at
thirty he had risen to the rank of Lieutenant General. He was now old;
but the vigour of his mind was unimpaired. His courage was of the
truest temper; his understanding strong, but narrow. What he saw he
saw clearly: but he saw not much at a glance. In an age of perfidy and
levity, he had, amidst manifold temptations and dangers, adhered firmly
to the principles of his youth. His enemies could not deny that his life
had been consistent, and that with the same spirit with which he had
stood up against the Stuarts he had stood up against the Cromwells.
There was but a single blemish on his fame: but that blemish, in the
opinion of the great majority of his countrymen, was one for which no
merit could compensate and which no time could efface. His name and seal
were on the death warrant of Charles the First.
After the Restoration, Ludlow found a refuge on the shores of the Lake
of Geneva. He was accompanied thither by another member of the High
Court of Justice, John Lisle, the husband of that Alice Lisle whose
death has left a lasting stain on the memory of James the Second. But
even in Switzerland the regicides were not safe. A large price was
set on their heads; and a succession of Irish adventurers, inflamed by
national and religious animosity, attempted to earn the bribe. Lisle
fell by the hand of one of these assassins. But Ludlow escaped unhurt
from all the machinations of his enemies. A small knot of vehement and
determined Whigs regarded him with a veneration, which increased as
years rolled away, and left him almost the only survivor, certainly the
most illustrious survivor, of a mighty race of men, the conquerors in
a terrible civil war, the judges of a king, the founders of a republic.
More than once he had been invited by the enemies of the House of Stuart
to leave his asylum, to become their captain, and to give the signal for
rebellion: but he had wisely refused to take any part in the desperate
enterprises which the Wildmans and Fergusons were never weary of
planning, [532]
The Revolution opened a new prospect to him. The right of the people to
resist oppression, a right which, during many years, no man could
assert without exposing himself to ecclesiastical anathemas and to civil
penalties, had been solemnly recognised by the Estates of the realm, and
had been proclaimed by Garter King at Arms on the very spot where the
memorable scaffold had been set up forty years before. James had not,
indeed, like Charles, died the death of a traitor. Yet the punishment of
the son might seem to differ from the punishment of the father rather in
degree than in principle. Those who had recently waged war on a tyrant,
who had turned him out of his palace, who had frightened him out of his
country, who had deprived him of his crown, might perhaps think that the
crime of going one step further had been sufficiently expiated by thirty
years of banishment. Ludlow's admirers, some of whom appear to have
been in high public situations, assured him that he might safely venture
over, nay, that he might expect to be sent in high command to Ireland,
where his name was still cherished by his old soldiers and by their
children, [533] He came and early in September it was known that he
was in London, [534] But it soon appeared that he and his friends had
misunderstood the temper of the English people. By all, except a small
extreme section of the Whig party, the act, in which he had borne a part
never to be forgotten, was regarded, not merely with the disapprobation
due to a great violation of law and justice, but with horror such as
even the Gunpowder Plot had not excited. The absurd and almost impious
service which is still read in our churches on the thirtieth of January
had produced in the minds of the vulgar a strange association of ideas.
The sufferings of Charles were confounded with the sufferings of the
Redeemer of mankind; and every regicide was a Judas, a Caiaphas or a
Herod. It was true that, when Ludlow sate on the tribunal in Westminster
Hall, he was an ardent enthusiast of twenty eight, and that he now
returned from exile a greyheaded and wrinkled man in his seventieth
year. Perhaps, therefore, if he had been content to live in close
retirement, and to shun places of public resort, even zealous Royalists
might not have grudged the old Republican a grave in his native soil.
But he had no thought of hiding himself. It was soon rumoured that one
of those murderers, who had brought on England guilt, for which she
annually, in sackcloth and ashes, implored God not to enter into
judgment with her, was strutting about the streets of her capital, and
boasting that he should ere long command her armies. His lodgings, it
was said, were the head quarters of the most noted enemies of monarchy
and episcopacy, [535] The subject was brought before the House of
Commons. The Tory members called loudly for justice on the traitor. None
of the Whigs ventured to say a word in his defence. One or two faintly
expressed a doubt whether the fact of his return had been proved by
evidence such as would warrant a parliamentary proceeding. The objection
was disregarded. It was resolved, without a division, that the King
should be requested to issue a proclamation for the apprehending of
Ludlow. Seymour presented the address; and the King promised to do what
was asked. Some days however elapsed before the proclamation appeared,
[536] Ludlow had time to make his escape, and again hid himself in his
Alpine retreat, never again to emerge. English travellers are still
taken to see his house close to the lake, and his tomb in a church among
the vineyards which overlook the little town of Vevay. On the house was
formerly legible an inscription purporting that to him to whom God is a
father every land is a fatherland; [537] and the epitaph on the tomb
still attests the feelings with which the stern old Puritan to the last
regarded the people of Ireland and the House of Stuart.
Tories and Whigs had concurred, or had affected to concur, in paying
honour to Walker and in putting a brand on Ludlow. But the feud between
the two parties was more bitter than ever. The King had entertained a
hope that, during the recess, the animosities which had in the preceding
session prevented an Act of Indemnity from passing would have been
mitigated. On the day on which the Houses reassembled, he had pressed
them earnestly to put an end to the fear and discord which could never
cease to exist, while great numbers held their property and their
liberty, and not a few even their lives, by an uncertain tenure. His
exhortation proved of no effect. October, November, December passed
away; and nothing was done. An Indemnity Bill indeed had been brought
in, and read once; but it had ever since lain neglected on the table of
the House, [538] Vindictive as had been the mood in which the Whigs had
left Westminster, the mood in which they returned was more vindictive
still. Smarting from old sufferings, drunk with recent prosperity,
burning with implacable resentment, confident of irresistible strength,
they were not less rash and headstrong than in the days of the Exclusion
Bill. Sixteen hundred and eighty was come again. Again all compromise
was rejected. Again the voices of the wisest and most upright friends
of liberty were drowned by the clamour of hotheaded and designing
agitators. Again moderation was despised as cowardice, or execrated as
treachery. All the lessons taught by a cruel experience were forgotten.
The very same men who had expiated, by years of humiliation, of
imprisonment, of penury, of exile, the folly with which they had misused
the advantage given them by the Popish plot, now misused with equal
folly the advantage given them by the Revolution. The second madness
would, in all probability, like the first, have ended in their
proscription, dispersion, decimation, but for the magnanimity and
wisdom of that great prince, who, bent on fulfilling his mission, and
insensible alike to flattery and to outrage, coldly and inflexibly saved
them in their own despite.
It seemed that nothing but blood would satisfy them. The aspect and
the temper of the House of Commons reminded men of the time of
the ascendency of Oates; and, that nothing might be wanting to the
resemblance, Oates himself was there. As a witness, indeed, he could now
render no service: but he had caught the scent of carnage, and came to
gloat on the butchery in which he could no longer take an active part.
His loathsome features were again daily seen, and his well known "Ah
Laard, ah Laard!" was again daily heard in the lobbies and in the
gallery, [539] The House fell first on the renegades of the late reign.
Of those renegades the Earls of Peterborough and Salisbury were the
highest in rank, but were also the lowest in intellect: for Salisbury
had always been an idiot; and Peterborough had long been a dotard. It
was however resolved by the Commons that both had, by joining the Church
of Rome, committed high treason, and that both should be impeached,
[540] A message to that effect was sent to the Lords. Poor old
Peterborough was instantly taken into custody, and was sent, tottering
on a crutch, and wrapped up in woollen stuffs, to the Tower. The next
day Salisbury was brought to the bar of his peers. He muttered something
about his youth and his foreign education, and was then sent to bear
Peterborough company, [541] The Commons had meanwhile passed on to
offenders of humbler station and better understanding. Sir Edward Hales
was brought before them. He had doubtless, by holding office in defiance
of the Test Act, incurred heavy penalties. But these penalties fell far
short of what the revengeful spirit of the victorious party demanded;
and he was committed as a traitor, [542] Then Obadiah Walker was led in.
He behaved with a pusillanimity and disingenuousness which deprived him
of all claim to respect or pity. He protested that he had never changed
his religion, that his opinions had always been and still were those of
some highly respectable divines of the Church of England, and that there
were points on which he differed from the Papists. In spite of this
quibbling, he was pronounced guilty of high treason, and sent to prison,
[543] Castlemaine was put next to the bar, interrogated, and committed
under a warrant which charged him with the capital crime of trying to
reconcile the kingdom to the Church of Rome, [544]
In the meantime the Lords had appointed a Committee to Inquire who
were answerable for the deaths of Russell, of Sidney, and of some other
eminent Whigs. Of this Committee, which was popularly called the Murder
Committee, the Earl of Stamford, a Whig who had been deeply concerned in
the plots formed by his party against the Stuarts, was chairman, [545]
The books of the Council were inspected: the clerks of the Council were
examined: some facts disgraceful to the Judges, to the Solicitors of
the Treasury, to the witnesses for the Crown, and to the keepers of the
state prisons, were elicited: but about the packing of the juries no
evidence could be obtained. The Sheriffs kept their own counsel. Sir
Dudley North, in particular, underwent a most severe cross examination
with characteristic clearness of head and firmness of temper, and
steadily asserted that he had never troubled himself about the political
opinions of the persons whom he put on any panel, but had merely
inquired whether they were substantial citizens. He was undoubtedly
lying; and so some of the Whig peers told him in very plain words and
in very loud tones: but, though they were morally certain of his guilt,
they could find no proofs which would support a criminal charge against
him. The indelible stain however remains on his memory, and is still a
subject of lamentation to those who, while loathing his dishonesty and
cruelty, cannot forget that he was one of the most original, profound
and accurate thinkers of his age, [546]
Halifax, more fortunate than Dudley North, was completely cleared, not
only from legal, but also from moral guilt. He was the chief object of
attack; and yet a severe examination brought nothing to light that was
not to his honour. Tillotson was called as a witness. He swore that he
had been the channel of communication between Halifax and Russell when
Russell was a prisoner in the Tower. "My Lord Halifax," said the Doctor,
"showed a very compassionate concern for my Lord Russell; and my Lord
Russell charged me with his last thanks for my Lord Halifax's humanity
and kindness." It was proved that the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth had
borne similar testimony to Halifax's good nature. One hostile witness
indeed was produced, John Hampden, whose mean supplications and enormous
bribes had saved his neck from the halter. He was now a powerful and
prosperous man: he was a leader of the dominant party in the House of
Commons; and yet he was one of the most unhappy beings on the face of
the earth. The recollection of the pitiable figure which he had made
at the bar of the Old Bailey embittered his temper, and impelled him
to avenge himself without mercy on those who had directly or indirectly
contributed to his humiliation. Of all the Whigs he was the most
intolerant and the most obstinately hostile to all plans of amnesty.
The consciousness that he had disgraced himself made him jealous of his
dignity and quick to take offence. He constantly paraded his services
and his sufferings, as if he hoped that this ostentatious display would
hide from others the stain which nothing could hide from himself. Having
during many months harangued vehemently against Halifax in the House
of Commons, he now came to swear against Halifax before the Lords. The
scene was curious. The witness represented himself as having saved
his country, as having planned the Revolution, as having placed their
Majesties on the throne. He then gave evidence intended to show that his
life had been endangered by the machinations of the Lord Privy Seal: but
that evidence missed the mark at which it was aimed, and recoiled on him
from whom it proceeded. Hampden was forced to acknowledge that he had
sent his wife to implore the intercession of the man whom he was now
persecuting. "Is it not strange," asked Halifax, "that you should have
requested the good offices of one whose arts had brought your head into
peril?" "Not at all," said Hampden; "to whom was I to apply except to
the men who were in power? I applied to Lord Jeffreys: I applied to
Father Petre; and I paid them six thousand pounds for their services."
"But did Lord Halifax take any money?" "No, I cannot say that he did."
"And, Mr. Hampden, did not you afterwards send your wife to thank him
for his kindness?" "Yes, I believe I did," answered Hampden; "but I know
of no solid effects of that kindness. If there were any, I should be
obliged to my Lord to tell me what they were." Disgraceful as had been
the appearance which this degenerate heir of an illustrious name
had made at the Old Bailey, the appearance which he made before the
Committee of Murder was more disgraceful still, [547] It is pleasing to
know that a person who had been far more cruelly wronged than he, but
whose nature differed widely from his, the nobleminded Lady Russell,
remonstrated against the injustice with which the extreme Whigs treated
Halifax, [548]
The malice of John Hampden, however, was unwearied and unabashed. A few
days later, in a committee of the whole House of Commons on the state
of the nation, he made a bitter speech, in which he ascribed all the
disasters of the year to the influence of the men who had, in the days
of the Exclusion Bill, been censured by Parliaments, of the men who had
attempted to mediate between James and William. The King, he said, ought
to dismiss from his counsels and presence all the three noblemen who had
been sent to negotiate with him at Hungerford. He went on to speak
of the danger of employing men of republican principles. He doubtless
alluded to the chief object of his implacable malignity. For Halifax,
though from temper averse to violent changes, was well known to be in
speculation a republican, and often talked, with much ingenuity and
pleasantry, against hereditary monarchy. The only effect, however, of
the reflection now thrown on him was to call forth a roar of derision.
That a Hampden, that the grandson of the great leader of the Long
Parliament, that a man who boasted of having conspired with Algernon
Sidney against the royal House, should use the word republican as a term
of reproach! When the storm of laughter had subsided, several members
stood up to vindicate the accused statesmen. Seymour declared that, much
as he disapproved of the manner in which the administration had lately
been conducted, he could not concur in the vote which John Hampden had
proposed. "Look where you will," he said, "to Ireland, to Scotland, to
the navy, to the army, you will find abundant proofs of mismanagement.
If the war is still to be conducted by the same hands, we can expect
nothing but a recurrence of the same disasters. But I am not prepared to
proscribe men for the best thing that they ever did in their lives, to
proscribe men for attempting to avert a revolution by timely mediation."
It was justly said by another speaker that Halifax and Nottingham had
been sent to the Dutch camp because they possessed the confidence of
the nation, because they were universally known to be hostile to the
dispensing power, to the Popish religion, and to the French ascendency.
It was at length resolved that the King should be requested in general
terms to find out and to remove the authors of the late miscarriages,
[549] A committee was appointed to prepare an Address. John Hampden was
chairman, and drew up a representation in terms so bitter that, when it
was reported to the House, his own father expressed disapprobation, and
one member exclaimed: "This an address! It is a libel." After a sharp
debate, the Address was recommitted, and was not again mentioned, [550]
Indeed, the animosity which a large part of the House had felt against
Halifax was beginning to abate. It was known that, though he had not yet
formally delivered up the Privy Seal, he had ceased to be a confidential
adviser of the Crown. The power which he had enjoyed during the first
months of the reign of William and Mary had passed to the more daring,
more unscrupulous and more practical Caermarthen, against whose
influence Shrewsbury contended in vain. Personally Shrewsbury stood high
in the royal favour: but he was a leader of the Whigs, and, like all
leaders of parties, was frequently pushed forward against his will by
those who seemed to follow him. He was himself inclined to a mild and
moderate policy: but he had not sufficient firmness to withstand the
clamorous importunity with which such politicians as John Howe and John
Hampden demanded vengeance on their enemies. His advice had therefore,
at this time, little weight with his master, who neither loved the
Tories nor trusted them, but who was fully determined not to proscribe
them.
Meanwhile the Whigs, conscious that they had lately sunk in the opinion
both of the King and of the nation, resolved on making a bold and crafty
attempt to become independent of both. A perfect account of that attempt
cannot be constructed out of the scanty and widely dispersed materials
which have come down to us. Yet the story, as it has come down to us, is
both interesting and instructive.
A bill for restoring the rights of those corporations which had
surrendered their charters to the Crown during the last two reigns had
been brought into the House of Commons, had been received with general
applause by men of all parties, had been read twice, and had been
referred to a select committee, of which Somers was chairman. On the
second of January Somers brought up the report. The attendance of Tories
was scanty: for, as no important discussion was expected, many country
gentlemen had left town, and were keeping a merry Christmas by the
chimney fires of their manor houses. The muster of zealous Whigs was
strong. As soon as the bill had been reported, Sacheverell, renowned in
the stormy parliaments of the reign of Charles the Second as one of the
ablest and keenest of the Exclusionists, stood up and moved to add a
clause providing that every municipal functionary who had in any manner
been a party to the surrendering of the franchises of a borough should
be incapable for seven years of holding any office in that borough.
The constitution of almost every corporate town in England had been
remodelled during that hot fit of loyalty which followed the detection
of the Rye House Plot; and, in almost every corporate town, the voice
of the Tories had been for delivering up the charter, and for trusting
every thing to the paternal care of the Sovereign. The effect of
Sacheverell's clause, therefore, was to make some thousands of the most
opulent and highly considered men in the kingdom incapable, during seven
years, of bearing any part in the government of the places in which
they resided, and to secure to the Whig party, during seven years, an
overwhelming influence in borough elections.
The minority exclaimed against the gross injustice of passing, rapidly
and by surprise, at a season when London was empty, a law of the highest
importance, a law which retrospectively inflicted a severe penalty on
many hundreds of respectable gentlemen, a law which would call forth the
strongest passions in every town from Berwick to St. Ives, a law which
must have a serious effect on the composition of the House itself.
Common decency required at least an adjournment. An adjournment was
moved: but the motion was rejected by a hundred and twenty-seven votes
to eighty-nine. The question was then put that Sacheverell's clause
should stand part of the bill, and was carried by a hundred and
thirty-three to sixty-eight. Sir Robert Howard immediately moved that
every person who, being under Sacheverell's clause disqualified for
municipal office, should presume to take any such office, should forfeit
five hundred pounds, and should be for life incapable of holding any
public employment whatever. The Tories did not venture to divide, [551]
The rules of the House put it in the power of a minority to obstruct
the progress of a bill; and this was assuredly one of the very rare
occasions on which that power would have been with great propriety
exerted. It does not appear, however, that the parliamentary tacticians
of that age were aware of the extent to which a small number of members
can, without violating any form, retard the course of business.
It was immediately resolved that the bill, enlarged by Sacheverell's and
Howard's clauses, should be ingrossed. The most vehement Whigs were bent
on finally passing it within forty-eight hours. The Lords, indeed, were
not likely to regard it very favourably. But it should seem that some
desperate men were prepared to withhold the supplies till it should
pass, nay, even to tack it to the bill of supply, and thus to place
the Upper House under the necessity of either consenting to a vast
proscription of the Tories or refusing to the government the means of
carrying on the war, [552] There were Whigs, however, honest enough to
wish that fair play should be given to the hostile party, and prudent
enough to know that an advantage obtained by violence and cunning could
not be permanent. These men insisted that at least a week should be
suffered to elapse before the third reading, and carried their point.
Their less scrupulous associates complained bitterly that the good
cause was betrayed. What new laws of war were these? Why was chivalrous
courtesy to be shown to foes who thought no stratagem immoral, and who
had never given quarter? And what had been done that was not in strict
accordance with the law of Parliament? That law knew nothing of short
notices and long notices, of thin houses and full houses. It was the
business of a representative of the people to be in his place. If he
chose to shoot and guzzle at his country seat when important business
was under consideration at Westminster, what right had he to murmur
because more upright and laborious servants of the public passed, in his
absence, a bill which appeared to them necessary to the public safety?
As however a postponement of a few days appeared to be inevitable, those
who had intended to gain the victory by stealing a march now disclaimed
that intention. They solemnly assured the King, who could not help
showing some displeasure at their conduct, and who felt much more
displeasure than he showed, that they had owed nothing to surprise,
and that they were quite certain of a majority in the fullest house.
Sacheverell is said to have declared with great warmth that he would
stake his seat on the issue, and that if he found himself mistaken
he would never show his face in Parliament again. Indeed, the general
opinion at first was that the Whigs would win the day. But it soon
became clear that the fight would be a hard one. The mails had carried
out along all the high roads the tidings that, on the second of January,
the Commons had agreed to a retrospective penal law against the whole
Tory party, and that, on the tenth, that law would be considered for the
last time. The whole kingdom was moved from Northumberland to Cornwall.
A hundred knights and squires left their halls hung with mistletoe and
holly, and their boards groaning with brawn and plum porridge, and rode
up post to town, cursing the short days, the cold weather, the
miry roads and the villanous Whigs. The Whigs, too, brought up
reinforcements, but not to the same extent; for the clauses were
generally unpopular, and not without good cause. Assuredly no reasonable
man of any party will deny that the Tories, in surrendering to the Crown
all the municipal franchises of the realm, and, with those franchises,
the power of altering the constitution of the House of Commons,
committed a great fault. But in that fault the nation itself had been
an accomplice. If the Mayors and Aldermen whom it was now proposed to
punish had, when the tide of loyal enthusiasm ran high, sturdily refused
to comply with the wish of their Sovereign, they would have been
pointed at in the street as Roundhead knaves, preached at by the Rector,
lampooned in ballads, and probably burned in effigy before their own
doors. That a community should be hurried into errors alternately by
fear of tyranny and by fear of anarchy is doubtless a great evil. But
the remedy for that evil is not to punish for such errors some persons
who have merely erred with the rest, and who have since repented with
the rest. Nor ought it to have been forgotten that the offenders
against whom Sacheverell's clause was directed had, in 1688, made large
atonement for the misconduct of which they had been guilty in 1683. They
had, as a class, stood up firmly against the dispensing power; and most
of them had actually been turned out of their municipal offices by James
for refusing to support his policy. It is not strange therefore that
the attempt to inflict on all these men without exception a degrading
punishment should have raised such a storm of public indignation as many
Whig members of parliament were unwilling to face.
As the decisive conflict drew near, and as the muster of the Tories
became hourly stronger and stronger, the uneasiness of Sacheverell and
of his confederates increased. They found that they could hardly hope
for a complete victory. They must make some concession. They must
propose to recommit the bill. They must declare themselves willing
to consider whether any distinction could be made between the chief
offenders and the multitudes who had been misled by evil example. But as
the spirit of one party fell the spirit of the other rose. The Tories,
glowing with resentment which was but too just, were resolved to listen
to no terms of compromise.
The tenth of January came; and, before the late daybreak of that season,
the House was crowded. More than a hundred and sixty members had come
up to town within a week. From dawn till the candles had burned down to
their sockets the ranks kept unbroken order; and few members left their
seats except for a minute to take a crust of bread or a glass of claret.
Messengers were in waiting to carry the result to Kensington, where
William, though shaken by a violent cough, sate up till midnight,
anxiously expecting the news, and writing to Portland, whom he had sent
on an important mission to the Hague.
The only remaining account of the debate is defective and confused. But
from that account it appears that the excitement was great. Sharp things
were said. One young Whig member used language so hot that he was in
danger of being called to the bar. Some reflections were thrown on the
Speaker for allowing too much licence to his own friends. But in truth
it mattered little whether he called transgressors to order or not. The
House had long been quite unmanageable; and veteran members bitterly
regretted the old gravity of debate and the old authority of the chair,
[553] That Somers disapproved of the violence of the party to which he
belonged may be inferred, both from the whole course of his public life,
and from the very significant fact that, though he had charge of the
Corporation Bill, he did not move the penal clauses, but left that
ungracious office to men more impetuous and less sagacious than himself.
He did not however abandon his allies in this emergency, but spoke for
them, and tried to make the best of a very bad case. The House divided
several times. On the first division a hundred and seventy-four voted
with Sacheverell, a hundred and seventy-nine against him. Still the
battle was stubbornly kept up; but the majority increased from five to
ten, from ten to twelve, and from twelve to eighteen. Then at length,
after a stormy sitting of fourteen hours, the Whigs yielded. It was near
midnight when, to the unspeakable joy and triumph of the Tories, the
clerk tore away from the parchment on which the bill had been engrossed
the odious clauses of Sacheverell and Howard, [554]
Emboldened by this great victory, the Tories made an attempt to push
forward the Indemnity Bill which had lain many weeks neglected on the
table, [555] But the Whigs, notwithstanding their recent defeat, were
still the majority of the House; and many members, who had shrunk
from the unpopularity which they would have incurred by supporting the
Sacheverell clause and the Howard clause, were perfectly willing to
assist in retarding the general pardon. They still propounded their
favourite dilemma. How, they asked, was it possible to defend this
project of amnesty without condemning the Revolution? Could it be
contended that crimes which had been grave enough to justify resistance
had not been grave enough to deserve punishment? And, if those crimes
were of such magnitude that they could justly be visited on the
Sovereign whom the Constitution had exempted from responsibility, on
what principle was immunity to be granted to his advisers and tools,
who were beyond all doubt responsible? One facetious member put this
argument in a singular form. He contrived to place in the Speaker's
chair a paper which, when examined, appeared to be a Bill of Indemnity
for King James, with a sneering preamble about the mercy which had,
since the Revolution, been extended to more heinous offenders, and about
the indulgence due to a King, who, in oppressing his people, had only
acted after the fashion of all Kings, [556]
On the same day on which this mock Bill of Indemnity disturbed the
gravity of the Commons, it was moved that the House should go into
Committee on the real Bill. The Whigs threw the motion out by a hundred
and ninety-three votes to a hundred and fifty-six. They then proceeded
to resolve that a bill of pains and penalties against delinquents should
be forthwith brought in, and engrafted on the Bill of Indemnity, [557]
A few hours later a vote passed that showed more clearly than any thing
that had yet taken place how little chance there was that the public
mind would be speedily quieted by an amnesty. Few persons stood higher
in the estimation of the Tory party than Sir Robert Sawyer. He was a man
of ample fortune and aristocratical connections, of orthodox opinions
and regular life, an able and experienced lawyer, a well read scholar,
and, in spite of a little pomposity, a good speaker. He had been
Attorney General at the time of the detection of the Rye House Plot; he
had been employed for the Crown in the prosecutions which followed; and
he had conducted those prosecutions with an eagerness which would, in
our time, be called cruelty by all parties, but which, in his own time,
and to his own party, seemed to be merely laudable zeal. His friends
indeed asserted that he was conscientious even to scrupulosity in
matters of life and death; [558] but this is an eulogy which persons who
bring the feelings of the nineteenth century to the study of the
State Trials of the seventeenth century will have some difficulty in
understanding. The best excuse which can be made for this part of his
life is that the stain of innocent blood was common to him with almost
all the eminent public men of those evil days. When we blame him for
prosecuting Russell, we must not forget that Russell had prosecuted
Stafford.
Great as Sawyer's offences were, he had made great atonement for them.
He had stood up manfully against Popery and despotism; he had, in
the very presence chamber, positively refused to draw warrants in
contravention of Acts of Parliament; he had resigned his lucrative
office rather than appear in Westminster Hall as the champion of the
dispensing power; he had been the leading counsel for the seven Bishops;
and he had, on the day of their trial, done his duty ably, honestly, and
fearlessly. He was therefore a favourite with High Churchmen, and might
be thought to have fairly earned his pardon from the Whigs. But the
Whigs were not in a pardoning mood; and Sawyer was now called to account
for his conduct in the case of Sir Thomas Armstrong.
If Armstrong was not belied, he was deep in the worst secrets of the
Rye House Plot, and was one of those who undertook to slay the two royal
brothers. When the conspiracy was discovered, he fled to the Continent
and was outlawed. The magistrates of Leyden were induced by a bribe to
deliver him up. He was hurried on board of an English ship, carried to
London, and brought before the King's Bench. Sawyer moved the Court to
award execution on the outlawry. Armstrong represented that a year had
not yet elapsed since he had been outlawed, and that, by an Act passed
in the reign of Edward the Sixth, an outlaw who yielded himself within
the year was entitled to plead Not Guilty, and to put himself on his
country. To this it was answered that Armstrong had not yielded himself,
that he had been dragged to the bar a prisoner, and that he had no
right to claim a privilege which was evidently meant to be given only
to persons who voluntarily rendered themselves up to public justice.
Jeffreys and the other judges unanimously overruled Armstrong's
objection, and granted the award of execution. Then followed one of
the most terrible of the many terrible scenes which, in those times,
disgraced our Courts. The daughter of the unhappy man was at his side.
"My Lord," she cried out, "you will not murder my father. This is
murdering a man." "How now?" roared the Chief Justice. "Who is this
woman? Take her, Marshal. Take her away." She was forced out, crying
as she went, "God Almighty's judgments light on you!" "God Almighty's
judgment," said Jeffreys, "will light on traitors. Thank God, I am
clamour proof." When she was gone, her father again insisted on what
he conceived to be his right. "I ask" he said, "only the benefit of the
law." "And, by the grace of God, you shall have it," said the judge.
"Mr. Sheriff, see that execution be done on Friday next. There is the
benefit of the law for you." On the following Friday, Armstrong was
hanged, drawn and quartered; and his head was placed over Westminster
Hall, [559]
The insolence and cruelty of Jeffreys excite, even at the distance of so
many years, an indignation which makes it difficult to be just to him.
Yet a perfectly dispassionate inquirer may perhaps think it by no means
clear that the award of execution was illegal. There was no precedent;
and the words of the Act of Edward the Sixth may, without any straining,
be construed as the Court construed them. Indeed, had the penalty
been only fine or imprisonment, nobody would have seen any thing
reprehensible in the proceeding. But to send a man to the gallows as a
traitor, without confronting him with his accusers, without hearing his
defence, solely because a timidity which is perfectly compatible with
innocence has impelled him to hide himself, is surely a violation, if
not of any written law, yet of those great principles to which all laws
ought to conform. The case was brought before the House of Commons. The
orphan daughter of Armstrong came to the bar to demand vengeance; and
a warm debate followed. Sawyer was fiercely attacked and strenuously
defended. The Tories declared that he appeared to them to have done
only what, as counsel for the Crown, he was bound to do, and to have
discharged his duty to God, to the King, and to the prisoner. If the
award was legal, nobody was to blame; and, if the award was illegal,
the blame lay, not with the Attorney General, but with the Judges. There
would be an end of all liberty of speech at the bar, if an advocate was
to be punished for making a strictly regular application to a Court, and
for arguing that certain words in a statute were to be understood in a
certain sense. The Whigs called Sawyer murderer, bloodhound, hangman.
If the liberty of speech claimed by advocates meant the liberty of
haranguing men to death, it was high time that the nation should rise
up and exterminate the whole race of lawyers. "Things will never be well
done," said one orator, "till some of that profession be made examples."
"No crime to demand execution!" exclaimed John Hampden. "We shall be
told next that it was no crime in the Jews to cry out 'Crucify him.'" A
wise and just man would probably have been of opinion that this was
not a case for severity. Sawyer's conduct might have been, to a certain
extent, culpable: but, if an Act of Indemnity was to be passed at all,
it was to be passed for the benefit of persons whose conduct had been
culpable. The question was not whether he was guiltless, but whether his
guilt was of so peculiarly black a dye that he ought, notwithstanding
all his sacrifices and services, to be excluded by name from the mercy
which was to be granted to many thousands of offenders. This question
calm and impartial judges would probably have decided in his favour. It
was, however, resolved that he should be excepted from the Indemnity,
and expelled from the House, [560]
On the morrow the Bill of Indemnity, now transformed into a Bill of
Pains and Penalties, was again discussed. The Whigs consented to refer
it to a Committee of the whole House, but proposed to instruct the
Committee to begin its labours by making out a list of the offenders who
were to be proscribed. The Tories moved the previous question. The House
divided; and the Whigs carried their point by a hundred and ninety votes
to a hundred and seventy-three, [561]
The King watched these events with painful anxiety. He was weary of his
crown. He had tried to do justice to both the contending parties; but
justice would satisfy neither. The Tories hated him for protecting the
Dissenters. The Whigs hated him for protecting the Tories. The amnesty
seemed to be more remote than when, ten months before, he first
recommended it from the throne. The last campaign in Ireland had been
disastrous. It might well be that the next campaign would be more
disastrous still. The malpractices, which had done more than the
exhalations of the marshes of Dundalk to destroy the efficiency of the
English troops, were likely to be as monstrous as ever. Every part of
the administration was thoroughly disorganized; and the people were
surprised and angry because a foreigner, newly come among them,
imperfectly acquainted with them, and constantly thwarted by them, had
not, in a year, put the whole machine of government to rights. Most of
his ministers, instead of assisting him, were trying to get up addresses
and impeachments against each other. Yet if he employed his own
countrymen, on whose fidelity and attachment he could rely, a general
cry of rage was set up by all the English factions. The knavery of
the English Commissariat had destroyed an army: yet a rumour that he
intended to employ an able, experienced, and trusty Commissary from
Holland had excited general discontent. The King felt that he could not,
while thus situated, render any service to that great cause to which his
whole soul was devoted. Already the glory which he had won by conducting
to a successful issue the most important enterprise of that age was
becoming dim. Even his friends had begun to doubt whether he really
possessed all that sagacity and energy which had a few months before
extorted the unwilling admiration of his enemies. But he would endure
his splendid slavery no longer. He would return to his native country.
He would content himself with being the first citizen of a commonwealth
to which the name of Orange was dear. As such, he might still be
foremost among those who were banded together in defence of the
liberties of Europe. As for the turbulent and ungrateful islanders, who
detested him because he would not let them tear each other in pieces,
Mary must try what she could do with them. She was born on their soil.
She spoke their language. She did not dislike some parts of their
Liturgy, which they fancied to be essential, and which to him seemed at
best harmless. If she had little knowledge of politics and war, she had
what might be more useful, feminine grace and tact, a sweet temper, a
smile and a kind word for every body. She might be able to compose the
disputes which distracted the State and the Church. Holland, under his
government, and England under hers, might act cordially together against
the common enemy.
He secretly ordered preparations to be made for his voyage. Having done
this, he called together a few of his chief counsellors, and told
them his purpose. A squadron, he said, was ready to convey him to his
country. He had done with them. He hoped that the Queen would be more
successful. The ministers were thunderstruck. For once all quarrels were
suspended. The Tory Caermarthen on one side, the Whig Shrewsbury on the
other, expostulated and implored with a pathetic vehemence rare in the
conferences of statesmen. Many tears were shed. At length the King was
induced to give up, at least for the present, his design of abdicating
the government. But he announced another design which he was fully
determined not to give up. Since he was still to remain at the head of
the English administration, he would go himself to Ireland. He would try
whether the whole royal authority strenuously exerted on the spot where
the fate of the empire was to be decided, would suffice to prevent
peculation and to maintain discipline, [562]
That he had seriously meditated a retreat to Holland long continued to
be a secret, not only to the multitude, but even to the Queen, [563]
That he had resolved to take the command of his army in Ireland was
soon rumoured all over London. It was known that his camp furniture was
making, and that Sir Christopher Wren was busied in constructing a house
of wood which was to travel about, packed in two waggons, and to be set
up wherever His Majesty might fix his quarters, [564] The Whigs raised
a violent outcry against the whole scheme. Not knowing, or affecting not
to know, that it had been formed by William and by William alone, and
that none of his ministers had dared to advise him to encounter the
Irish swords and the Irish atmosphere, the whole party confidently
affirmed that it had been suggested by some traitor in the cabinet,
by some Tory who hated the Revolution and all that had sprung from the
Revolution. Would any true friend have advised His Majesty, infirm in
health as he was, to expose himself, not only to the dangers of war, but
to the malignity of a climate which had recently been fatal to thousands
of men much stronger than himself? In private the King sneered bitterly
at this anxiety for his safety. It was merely, in his judgment, the
anxiety which a hard master feels lest his slaves should become unfit
for their drudgery. The Whigs, he wrote to Portland, were afraid to lose
their tool before they had done their work. "As to their friendship," he
added, "you know what it is worth." His resolution, he told his friend,
was unalterably fixed. Every thing was at stake; and go he must, even
though the Parliament should present an address imploring him to stay,
[565]
He soon learned that such an address would be immediately moved in
both Houses and supported by the whole strength of the Whig party. This
intelligence satisfied him that it was time to take a decisive step.
He would not discard the Whigs but he would give them a lesson of which
they stood much in need. He would break the chain in which they imagined
that they had him fast. He would not let them have the exclusive
possession of power. He would not let them persecute the vanquished
party. In their despite, he would grant an amnesty to his people. In
their despite, he would take the command of his army in Ireland. He
arranged his plan with characteristic prudence, firmness, and secrecy.
A single Englishman it was necessary to trust: for William was not
sufficiently master of our language to address the Houses from the
throne in his own words; and, on very important occasions, his practice
was to write his speech in French, and to employ a translator. It is
certain that to one person, and to one only, the King confided the
momentous resolution which he had taken; and it can hardly be doubted
that this person was Caermarthen.
On the twenty-seventh of January, Black Rod knocked at the door of the
Commons. The Speaker and the members repaired to the House of Lords. The
King was on the throne. He gave his assent to the Supply Bill, thanked
the Houses for it, announced his intention of going to Ireland, and
prorogued the Parliament. None could doubt that a dissolution would
speedily follow. As the concluding words, "I have thought it convenient
now to put an end to this session," were uttered, the Tories, both above
and below the bar, broke forth into a shout of joy. The King meanwhile
surveyed his audience from the throne with that bright eagle eye which
nothing escaped. He might be pardoned if he felt some little vindictive
pleasure in annoying those who had cruelly annoyed him. "I saw," he
wrote to Portland the next day, "faces an ell long. I saw some of those
men change colour with vexation twenty times while I was speaking."
[566]
A few hours after the prorogation, a hundred and fifty Tory members of
Parliament had a parting dinner together at the Apollo Tavern in Fleet
Street, before they set out for their counties. They were in better
temper with William than they had been since his father in law had been
turned out of Whitehall. They had scarcely recovered from the joyful
surprise with which they had heard it announced from the throne that the
session was at an end. The recollection of their danger and the sense of
their deliverance were still fresh. They talked of repairing to Court in
a body to testify their gratitude: but they were induced to forego their
intention; and not without cause: for a great crowd of squires after a
revel, at which doubtless neither October nor claret had been spared,
might have caused some inconvenience in the presence chamber. Sir
John Lowther, who in wealth and influence was inferior to no country
gentleman of that age, was deputed to carry the thanks of the assembly
to the palace. He spoke, he told the King, the sense of a great body of
honest gentlemen. They begged His Majesty to be assured that they would
in their counties do their best to serve him; and they cordially wished
him a safe voyage to Ireland, a complete victory, a speedy return, and
a long and happy reign. During the following week, many, who had never
shown their faces in the circle at Saint James's since the Revolution,
went to kiss the King's hand. So warmly indeed did those who had
hitherto been regarded as half Jacobites express their approbation of
the policy of the government that the thoroughgoing Jacobites were much
disgusted, and complained bitterly of the strange blindness which seemed
to have come on the sons of the Church of England, [567]
All the acts of William, at this time, indicated his determination to
restrain, steadily though gently, the violence of the Whigs, and to
conciliate, if possible, the good will of the Tories. Several persons
whom the Commons had thrown into prison for treason were set at liberty
on bail, [568] The prelates who held that their allegiance was still
due to James were treated with a tenderness rare in the history of
revolutions. Within a week after the prorogation, the first of February
came, the day on which those ecclesiastics who refused to take the oath
were to be finally deprived. Several of the suspended clergy, after
holding out till the last moment, swore just in time to save themselves
from beggary. But the Primate and five of his suffragans were still
inflexible. They consequently forfeited their bishoprics; but Sancroft
was informed that the King had not yet relinquished the hope of being
able to make some arrangement which might avert the necessity of
appointing successors, and that the nonjuring prelates might continue
for the present to reside in their palaces. Their receivers were
appointed receivers for the Crown, and continued to collect the revenues
of the vacant sees, [569] Similar indulgence was shown to some
divines of lower rank. Sherlock, in particular, continued, after his
deprivation, to live unmolested in his official mansion close to the
Temple Church.
And now appeared a proclamation dissolving the Parliament. The writs for
a general election went out; and soon every part of the kingdom was in
a ferment. Van Citters, who had resided in England during many eventful
years, declared that he had never seen London more violently agitated,
[570] The excitement was kept up by compositions of all sorts, from
sermons with sixteen heads down to jingling street ballads. Lists of
divisions were, for the first time in our history, printed and dispersed
for the information of constituent bodies. Two of these lists may still
be seen in old libraries. One of the two, circulated by the Whigs,
contained the names of those Tories who had voted against declaring the
throne vacant. The other, circulated by the Tories, contained the names
of those Whigs who had supported the Sacheverell clause.
It soon became clear that public feeling had undergone a great change
during the year which had elapsed since the Convention had met; and
it is impossible to deny that this change was, at least in part, the
natural consequence and the just punishment of the intemperate and
vindictive conduct of the Whigs. Of the city of London they thought
themselves sure. The Livery had in the preceding year returned four
zealous Whigs without a contest. But all the four had voted for the
Sacheverell clause; and by that clause many of the merchant princes of
Lombard Street and Cornhill, men powerful in the twelve great companies,
men whom the goldsmiths followed humbly, hat in hand, up and down the
arcades of the Royal Exchange, would have been turned with all indignity
out of the Court of Aldermen and out of the Common Council. The struggle
was for life or death. No exertions, no artifices, were spared. William
wrote to Portland that the Whigs of the City, in their despair, stuck
at nothing, and that, as they went on, they would soon stand as much
in need of an Act of Indemnity as the Tories. Four Tories however were
returned, and that by so decisive a majority, that the Tory who stood
lowest polled four hundred votes more than the Whig who stood highest,
[571] The Sheriffs, desiring to defer as long as possible the triumph
of their enemies, granted a scrutiny. But, though the majority was
diminished, the result was not affected, [572] At Westminster, two
opponents of the Sacheverell clause were elected without a contest,
[573] But nothing indicated more strongly the disgust excited by
the proceedings of the late House of Commons than what passed in the
University of Cambridge. Newton retired to his quiet observatory over
the gate of Trinity College. Two Tories were returned by an overwhelming
majority. At the head of the poll was Sawyer, who had, but a few days
before, been excepted from the Indemnity Bill and expelled from the
House of Commons. The records of the University contain curious proofs
that the unwise severity with which he had been treated had raised an
enthusiastic feeling in his favour. Newton voted for Sawyer; and this
remarkable fact justifies us in believing that the great philosopher,
in whose genius and virtue the Whig party justly glories, had seen
the headstrong and revengeful conduct of that party with concern and
disapprobation, [574]
It was soon plain that the Tories would have a majority in the new House
of Commons, [575] All the leading Whigs however obtained seats, with one
exception. John Hampden was excluded, and was regretted only by the most
intolerant and unreasonable members of his party, [576]
The King meanwhile was making, in almost every department of the
executive government, a change corresponding to the change which the
general election was making in the composition of the legislature.
Still, however, he did not think of forming what is now called a
ministry. He still reserved to himself more especially the direction
of foreign affairs; and he superintended with minute attention all
the preparations for the approaching campaign in Ireland. In his
confidential letters he complained that he had to perform, with little
or no assistance, the task of organizing the disorganized military
establishments of the kingdom. The work, he said, was heavy; but it must
be done; for everything depended on it, [577] In general, the government
was still a government by independent departments; and in almost every
department Whigs and Tories were still mingled, though not exactly in
the old proportions. The Whig element had decidedly predominated, in
1689. The Tory element predominated, though not very decidedly, in 1690.
Halifax had laid down the Privy Seal. It was offered to Chesterfield,
a Tory who had voted in the Convention for a Regency. But Chesterfield
refused to quit his country house and gardens in Derbyshire for
the Court and the Council Chamber; and the Privy Seal was put into
Commission, [578] Caermarthen was now the chief adviser of the Crown
on all matters relating to the internal administration and to the
management of the two Houses of Parliament. The white staff, and the
immense power which accompanied the white staff, William was still
determined never to entrust to any subject. Caermarthen therefore,
continued to be Lord President; but he took possession of a suite of
apartments in Saint James's Palace which was considered as peculiarly
belonging to the Prime Minister, [579] He had, during the preceding
year, pleaded ill health as an excuse for seldom appearing at the
Council Board; and the plea was not without foundation, for his
digestive organs had some morbid peculiarities which puzzled the whole
College of Physicians; his complexion was livid; his frame was meagre;
and his face, handsome and intellectual as it was, had a haggard look
which indicated the restlessness of pain as well as the restlessness
of ambition, [580] As soon, however, as he was once more minister, he
applied himself strenuously to business, and toiled every day, and all
day long, with an energy which amazed every body who saw his ghastly
countenance and tottering gait.
Though he could not obtain for himself the office of Lord Treasurer, his
influence at the Treasury was great. Monmouth, the First Commissioner,
and Delamere, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, two of the most violent
Whigs in England, quitted their seats. On this, as on many other
occasions, it appeared that they had nothing but their Whiggism
in common. The volatile Monmouth, sensible that he had none of the
qualities of a financier, seems to have taken no personal offence at
being removed from a place which he never ought to have occupied. He
thankfully accepted a pension, which his profuse habits made necessary
to him, and still continued to attend councils, to frequent the Court,
and to discharge the duties of a Lord of the Bedchamber, [581] He also
tried to make himself useful in military business, which he understood,
if not well, yet better than most of his brother nobles; and he
professed, during a few months, a great regard for Caermarthen. Delamere
was in a very different mood. It was in vain that his services were
overpaid with honours and riches. He was created Earl of Warrington. He
obtained a grant of all the lands that could be discovered belonging
to Jesuits in five or six counties. A demand made by him on account
of expenses incurred at the time of the Revolution was allowed; and
he carried with him into retirement as the reward of his patriotic
exertions a large sum, which the State could ill spare. But his anger
was not to be so appeased; and to the end of his life he continued to
complain bitterly of the ingratitude with which he and his party had
been treated, [582]
Sir John Lowther became First Lord of the Treasury, and was the person
on whom Caermarthen chiefly relied for the conduct of the ostensible
business of the House of Commons. Lowther was a man of ancient descent,
ample estate, and great parliamentary interest. Though not an old man,
he was an old senator: for he had, before he was of age, succeeded
his father as knight of the shire for Westmoreland. In truth
the representation of Westmoreland was almost as much one of the
hereditaments of the Lowther family as Lowther Hall. Sir John's
abilities were respectable; his manners, though sarcastically noticed
in contemporary lampoons as too formal, were eminently courteous;
his personal courage he was but too ready to prove; his morals were
irreproachable; his time was divided between respectable labours and
respectable pleasures; his chief business was to attend the House of
Commons and to preside on the Bench of justice; his favourite amusements
were reading and gardening. In opinions he was a very moderate Tory. He
was attached to hereditary monarchy and to the Established Church; but
he had concurred in the Revolution; he had no misgivings touching the
title of William and Mary; he had sworn allegiance to them without
any mental reservation; and he appears to have strictly kept his oath.
Between him and Caermarthen there was a close connection. They had acted
together cordially in the Northern insurrection; and they agreed in
their political views, as nearly as a very cunning statesman and a
very honest country gentleman could be expected to agree, [583] By
Caermarthen's influence Lowther was now raised to one of the most
important places in the kingdom. Unfortunately it was a place requiring
qualities very different from those which suffice to make a valuable
county member and chairman of quarter sessions. The tongue of the new
First Lord of the Treasury was not sufficiently ready, nor was his
temper sufficiently callous for his post. He had neither adroitness to
parry, nor fortitude to endure, the gibes and reproaches to which, in
his new character of courtier and placeman, he was exposed. There was
also something to be done which he was too scrupulous to do; something
which had never been done by Wolsey or Burleigh; something which has
never been done by any English statesman of our generation; but which,
from the time of Charles the Second to the time of George the Third, was
one of the most important parts of the business of a minister.
The history of the rise, progress, and decline of parliamentary
corruption in England still remains to be written. No subject has called
forth a greater quantity of eloquent vituperation and stinging sarcasm.
Three generations of serious and of sportive writers wept and laughed
over the venality of the senate. That venality was denounced on the
hustings, anathematized from the pulpit, and burlesqued on the stage;
was attacked by Pope in brilliant verse, and by Bolingbroke in stately
prose, by Swift with savage hatred, and by Gay with festive malice. The
voices of Tories and Whigs, of Johnson and Akenside, of Smollett and
Fielding, contributed to swell the cry. But none of those who railed
or of those who jested took the trouble to verify the phaenomena, or to
trace them to the real causes.
Sometimes the evil was imputed to the depravity of a particular
minister: but, when he had been driven from power, and when those who
had most loudly accused him governed in his stead, it was found that the
change of men had produced no change of system. Sometimes the evil
was imputed to the degeneracy of the national character. Luxury and
cupidity, it was said, had produced in our country the same effect which
they had produced of old in the Roman republic. The modern Englishman
was to the Englishman of the sixteenth century what Verres and Curio
were to Dentatus and Fabricius. Those who held this language were as
ignorant and shallow as people generally are who extol the past at the
expense of the present. A man of sense would have perceived that, if the
English of the time of George the Second had really been more sordid and
dishonest than their forefathers, the deterioration would not have shown
itself in one place alone. The progress of judicial venality and
of official venality would have kept pace with the progress of
parliamentary venality. But nothing is more certain than that, while the
legislature was becoming more and more venal, the courts of law and the
public offices were becoming purer and purer. The representatives of
the people were undoubtedly more mercenary in the days of Hardwicke and
Pelham than in the days of the Tudors. But the Chancellors of the
Tudors took plate and jewels from suitors without scruple or shame; and
Hardwicke would have committed for contempt any suitor who had dared
to bring him a present. The Treasurers of the Tudors raised princely
fortunes by the sale of places, titles, and pardons; and Pelham would
have ordered his servants to turn out of his house any man who had
offered him money for a peerage or a commissionership of customs. It is
evident, therefore, that the prevalence of corruption in the Parliament
cannot be ascribed to a general depravation of morals. The taint was
local; we must look for some local cause; and such a cause will without
difficulty be found.
Under our ancient sovereigns the House of Commons rarely interfered with
the executive administration. The Speaker was charged not to let
the members meddle with matters of State. If any gentleman was very
troublesome he was cited before the Privy Council, interrogated,
reprimanded, and sent to meditate on his undutiful conduct in the
Tower. The Commons did their best to protect themselves by keeping their
deliberations secret, by excluding strangers, by making it a crime to
repeat out of doors what had passed within doors. But these precautions
were of small avail. In so large an assembly there were always
talebearers ready to carry the evil report of their brethren to the
palace. To oppose the Court was therefore a service of serious danger.
In those days of course, there was little or no buying of votes. For an
honest man was not to be bought; and it was much cheaper to intimidate
or to coerce a knave than to buy him.
For a very different reason there has been no direct buying of votes
within the memory of the present generation. The House of Commons is
now supreme in the State, but is accountable to the nation. Even those
members who are not chosen by large constituent bodies are kept in awe
by public opinion. Every thing is printed; every thing is discussed;
every material word uttered in debate is read by a million of people on
the morrow. Within a few hours after an important division, the lists
of the majority and the minority are scanned and analysed in every town
from Plymouth to Inverness. If a name be found where it ought not to be,
the apostate is certain to be reminded in sharp language of the promises
which he has broken and of the professions which he has belied. At
present, therefore, the best way in which a government can secure the
support of a majority of the representative body is by gaining the
confidence of the nation.
But between the time when our Parliaments ceased to be controlled by
royal prerogative and the time when they began to be constantly and
effectually controlled by public opinion there was a long interval.
After the Restoration, no government ventured to return to those methods
by which, before the civil war, the freedom of deliberation has been
restrained. A member could no longer be called to account for his
harangues or his votes. He might obstruct the passing of bills of
supply; he might arraign the whole foreign policy of the country; he
might lay on the table articles of impeachment against all the chief
ministers; and he ran not the smallest risk of being treated as Morrice
had been treated by Elizabeth, or Eliot by Charles the First. The
senator now stood in no awe of the Court. Nevertheless all the defences
behind which the feeble Parliaments of the sixteenth century had
entrenched themselves against the attacks of prerogative were not only
still kept up, but were extended and strengthened. No politician seems
to have been aware that these defences were no longer needed for their
original purpose, and had begun to serve a purpose very different.
The rules which had been originally designed to secure faithful
representatives against the displeasure of the Sovereign, now operated
to secure unfaithful representatives against the displeasure of the
people, and proved much more effectual for the latter end than they had
ever been for the former. It was natural, it was inevitable, that, in
a legislative body emancipated from the restraints of the sixteenth
century, and not yet subjected to the restraints of the nineteenth
century, in a legislative body which feared neither the King nor the
public, there should be corruption.
The plague spot began to be visible and palpable in the days of the
Cabal. Clifford, the boldest and fiercest of the wicked Five, had
the merit of discovering that a noisy patriot, whom it was no longer
possible to send to prison, might be turned into a courtier by a
goldsmith's note. Clifford's example was followed by his successors.
It soon became a proverb that a Parliament resembled a pump. Often, the
wits said, when a pump appears to be dry, if a very small quantity of
water is poured in, a great quantity of water gushes out: and so, when
a Parliament appears to be niggardly, ten thousand pounds judiciously
given in bribes will often produce a million in supplies. The evil was
not diminished, nay, it was aggravated, by that Revolution which freed
our country from so many other evils. The House of Commons was now more
powerful than ever as against the Crown, and yet was not more strictly
responsible than formerly to the nation. The government had a new motive
for buying the members; and the members had no new motive for refusing
to sell themselves. William, indeed, had an aversion to bribery; he
resolved to abstain from it; and, during the first year of his reign, he
kept his resolution. Unhappily the events of that year did not encourage
him to persevere in his good intentions. As soon as Caermarthen was
placed at the head of the internal administration of the realm, a
complete change took place. He was in truth no novice in the art of
purchasing votes. He had, sixteen years before, succeeded Clifford at
the Treasury, had inherited Clifford's tactics, had improved upon them,
and had employed them to an extent which would have amazed the inventor.
From the day on which Caermarthen was called a second time to the
chief direction of affairs, parliamentary corruption continued to be
practised, with scarcely any intermission, by a long succession of
statesmen, till the close of the American war. Neither of the great
English parties can justly charge the other with any peculiar guilt on
this account. The Tories were the first who introduced the system and
the last who clung to it; but it attained its greatest vigour in the
time of Whig ascendency. The extent to which parliamentary support was
bartered for money cannot be with any precision ascertained. But it
seems probable that the number of hirelings was greatly exaggerated by
vulgar report, and was never large, though often sufficient to turn the
scale on important divisions. An unprincipled minister eagerly accepted
the services of these mercenaries. An honest minister reluctantly
submitted, for the sake of the commonwealth, to what he considered as
a shameful and odious extortion. But during many years every minister,
whatever his personal character might be, consented, willingly or
unwillingly, to manage the Parliament in the only way in which the
Parliament could then be managed. It at length became as notorious that
there was a market for votes at the Treasury as that there was a market
for cattle in Smithfield. Numerous demagogues out of power declaimed
against this vile traffic; but every one of those demagogues, as soon as
he was in power, found himself driven by a kind of fatality to engage in
that traffic, or at least to connive at it. Now and then perhaps a man
who had romantic notions of public virtue refused to be himself the
paymaster of the corrupt crew, and averted his eyes while his less
scrupulous colleagues did that which he knew to be indispensable, and
yet felt to be degrading. But the instances of this prudery were
rare indeed. The doctrine generally received, even among upright and
honourable politicians, was that it was shameful to receive bribes, but
that it was necessary to distribute them. It is a remarkable fact that
the evil reached the greatest height during the administration of Henry
Pelham, a statesman of good intentions, of spotless morals in private
life, and of exemplary disinterestedness. It is not difficult to guess
by what arguments he and other well meaning men, who, like him, followed
the fashion of their age, quieted their consciences. No casuist, however
severe, has denied that it may be a duty to give what it is a crime to
take. It was infamous in Jeffreys to demand money for the lives of the
unhappy prisoners whom he tried at Dorchester and Taunton. But it was
not infamous, nay, it was laudable, in the kinsmen and friends of a
prisoner to contribute of their substance in order to make up a purse
for Jeffreys. The Sallee rover, who threatened to bastinado a Christian
captive to death unless a ransom was forthcoming, was an odious ruffian.
But to ransom a Christian captive from a Sallee rover was, not merely
an innocent, but a highly meritorious act. It would be improper in such
cases to use the word corruption. Those who receive the filthy lucre are
corrupt already. He who bribes them does not make them wicked: he finds
them so; and he merely prevents their evil propensities from producing
evil effects. And might not the same plea be urged in defence of a
minister who, when no other expedient would avail, paid greedy and
lowminded men not to ruin their country?
It was by some such reasoning as this that the scruples of William were
overcome. Honest Burnet, with the uncourtly courage which distinguished
him, ventured to remonstrate with the King. "Nobody," William answered,
"hates bribery more, than I. But I have to do with a set of men who must
be managed in this vile way or not at all. I must strain a point or the
country is lost." [584]
It was necessary for the Lord President to have in the House of Commons
an agent for the purchase of members; and Lowther was both too awkward
and too scrupulous to be such an agent. But a man in whom craft and
profligacy were united in a high degree was without difficulty found.
This was the Master of the Rolls, Sir John Trevor, who had been Speaker
in the single Parliament held by James. High as Trevor had risen in the
world, there were people who could still remember him a strange looking
lawyer's clerk in the Inner Temple. Indeed, nobody who had ever seen
him was likely to forget him. For his grotesque features and his hideous
squint were far beyond the reach of caricature. His parts, which were
quick and vigorous, had enabled him early to master the science of
chicane. Gambling and betting were his amusements; and out of these
amusements he contrived to extract much business in the way of his
profession. For his opinion on a question arising out of a wager or
a game at chance had as much authority as a judgment of any court in
Westminster Hall. He soon rose to be one of the boon companions whom
Jeffreys hugged in fits of maudlin friendship over the bottle at night,
and cursed and reviled in court on the morrow. Under such a teacher,
Trevor rapidly became a proficient in that peculiar kind of rhetoric
which had enlivened the trials of Baxter and of Alice Lisle. Report
indeed spoke of some scolding matches between the Chancellor and his
friend, in which the disciple had been not less voluble and scurrilous
than the master. These contests, however, did not take place till the
younger adventurer had attained riches and dignities such that he no
longer stood in need of the patronage which had raised him, [585] Among
High Churchmen Trevor, in spite of his notorious want of principle, had
at this time a certain popularity, which he seems to have owed chiefly
to their conviction that, however insincere he might be in general, his
hatred of the dissenters was genuine and hearty. There was little doubt
that, in a House of Commons in which the Tories had a majority, he
might easily, with the support of the Court, be chosen Speaker. He was
impatient to be again in his old post, which he well knew how to make
one of the most lucrative in the kingdom; and he willingly undertook
that secret and shameful office for which Lowther was altogether
unqualified.
Richard Hampden was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. This
appointment was probably intended as a mark of royal gratitude for the
moderation of his conduct, and for the attempts which he had made to
curb the violence of his Whig friends, and especially of his son.
Godolphin voluntarily left the Treasury; why, we are not informed. We
can scarcely doubt that the dissolution and the result of the general
election must have given him pleasure. For his political opinions leaned
towards Toryism; and he had, in the late reign, done some things which,
though not very heinous, stood in need of an indemnity. It is probable
that he did not think it compatible with his personal dignity to sit at
the board below Lowther, who was in rank his inferior, [586]
A new Commission of Admiralty was issued. At the head of the naval
administration was placed Thomas Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, a high born
and high bred man, who had ranked among the Tories, who had voted for
a Regency, and who had married the daughter of Sawyer. That Pembroke's
Toryism, however, was not of a narrow and illiberal kind is sufficiently
proved by the fact that, immediately after the Revolution, the Essay on
the Human Understanding was dedicated to him by John Locke, in token of
gratitude for kind offices done in evil times, [587]
Nothing was omitted which could reconcile Torrington to this change.
For, though he had been found an incapable administrator, he still
stood so high in general estimation as a seaman that the government
was unwilling to lose his services. He was assured that no slight was
intended to him. He could not serve his country at once on the ocean
and at Westminster; and it had been thought less difficult to supply his
place in his office than on the deck of his flagship. He was at first
very angry, and actually laid down his commission: but some concessions
were made to his pride: a pension of three thousand pounds a year and a
grant of ten thousand acres of crown land in the Peterborough level were
irresistible baits to his cupidity; and, in an evil hour for England, he
consented to remain at the head of the naval force, on which the safety
of her coasts depended, [588]
While these changes were making in the offices round Whitehall, the
Commissions of Lieutenancy all over the kingdom were revised. The Tories
had, during twelve months, been complaining that their share in the
government of the districts in which they lived bore no proportion
to their number, to their wealth, and to the consideration which they
enjoyed in society. They now regained with great delight their former
position in their shires. The Whigs raised a cry that the King was
foully betrayed, and that he had been induced by evil counsellors to put
the sword into the hands of men who, as soon as a favourable opportunity
offered, would turn the edge against himself. In a dialogue which was
believed to have been written by the newly created Earl of Warrington,
and which had a wide circulation at the time, but has long been
forgotten, the Lord Lieutenant of a county was introduced expressing his
apprehensions that the majority of his deputies were traitors at heart,
[589] But nowhere was the excitement produced by the new distribution of
power so great as in the capital. By a Commission of Lieutenancy which
had been issued immediately after the Revolution, the train bands of the
City had been put under the command of staunch Whigs. Those powerful and
opulent citizens whose names were omitted complained that the list was
filled with elders of Puritan congregations, with Shaftesbury's brisk
boys, with Rye House plotters, and that it was scarcely possible to
find, mingled with that multitude of fanatics and levellers, a single
man sincerely attached to monarchy and to the Church. A new Commission
now appeared framed by Caermarthen and Nottingham. They had taken
counsel with Compton, the Bishop of the diocese; and Compton was not
a very discreet adviser. He had originally been a High Churchman and a
Tory. The severity with which he had been treated in the late reign had
transformed him into a Latitudinarian and a rebel; and he had now, from
jealousy of Tillotson, turned High Churchman and Tory again. The Whigs
complained that they were ungratefully proscribed by a government
which owed its existence to them; that some of the best friends of King
William had been dismissed with contumely to make room for some of
his worst enemies, for men who were as unworthy of trust as any Irish
Rapparee, for men who had delivered up to a tyrant the charter and
the immemorial privileges of the City, for men who had made themselves
notorious by the cruelty with which they had enforced the penal laws
against Protestant dissenters, nay, for men who had sate on those juries
which had found Russell and Cornish guilty, [590] The discontent was
so great that it seemed, during a short time, likely to cause pecuniary
embarrassment to the State. The supplies voted by the late Parliament
came in slowly. The wants of the public service were pressing. In such
circumstances it was to the citizens of London that the government
always looked for help; and the government of William had hitherto
looked especially to those citizens who professed Whig opinions. Things
were now changed. A few eminent Whigs, in their first anger, sullenly
refused to advance money. Nay, one or two unexpectedly withdrew
considerable sums from the Exchequer, [591] The financial difficulties
might have been serious, had not some wealthy Tories, who, if
Sacheverell's clause had become law, would have been excluded from all
municipal honours, offered the Treasury a hundred thousand pounds down,
and promised to raise a still larger sum, [592]
While the City was thus agitated, came a day appointed by royal
proclamation for a general fast. The reasons assigned for this solemn
act of devotion were the lamentable state of Ireland and the approaching
departure of the King. Prayers were offered up for the safety of His
Majesty's person and for the success of his arms. The churches of London
were crowded. The most eminent preachers of the capital, who were, with
scarcely an exception, either moderate Tories or moderate Whigs, exerted
themselves to calm the public mind, and earnestly exhorted their flocks
not to withhold, at this great conjuncture, a hearty support from the
prince, with whose fate was bound up the fate of the whole nation.
Burnet told a large congregation from the pulpit how the Greeks, when
the Great Turk was preparing to besiege Constantinople, could not be
persuaded to contribute any part of their wealth for the common defence,
and how bitterly they repented of their avarice when they were compelled
to deliver up to the victorious infidels the treasures which had been
refused to the supplications of the last Christian emperor, [593]
The Whigs, however, as a party, did not stand in need of such an
admonition. Grieved and angry as they were, they were perfectly sensible
that on the stability of the throne of William depended all that they
most highly prized. What some of them might, at this conjuncture, have
been tempted to do if they could have found another leader, if, for
example, their Protestant Duke, their King Monmouth, had still been
living, may be doubted. But their only choice was between the Sovereign
whom they had set up and the Sovereign whom they had pulled down. It
would have been strange indeed if they had taken part with James in
order to punish William, when the worst fault which they imputed to
William was that he did not participate in the vindictive feeling with
which they remembered the tyranny of James. Much as they disliked the
Bill of Indemnity, they had not forgotten the Bloody Circuit. They
therefore, even in their ill humour, continued true to their own King,
and, while grumbling at him, were ready to stand by him against his
adversary with their lives and fortunes, [594]
There were indeed exceptions; but they were very few; and they were
to be found almost exclusively in two classes, which, though widely
differing from each other in social position, closely resembled each
other in laxity of principle. All the Whigs who are known to have
trafficked with Saint Germains belonged, not to the main body of
the party, but either to the head or to the tail. They were either
patricians high in rank and office, or caitiffs who had long been
employed in the foulest drudgery of faction. To the former class
belonged Shrewsbury. Of the latter class the most remarkable specimen
was Robert Ferguson. From the day on which the Convention Parliament was
dissolved, Shrewsbury began to waver in his allegiance: but that he had
ever wavered was not, till long after, suspected by the public. That
Ferguson had, a few months after the Revolution, become a furious
Jacobite, was no secret to any body, and ought not to have been matter
of surprise to any body. For his apostasy he could not plead even the
miserable excuse that he had been neglected. The ignominious services
which he had formerly rendered to his party as a spy, a raiser of
riots, a dispenser of bribes, a writer of libels, a prompter of false
witnesses, had been rewarded only too prodigally for the honour of
the new government. That he should hold any high office was of course
impossible. But a sinecure place of five hundred a year had been created
for him in the department of the Excise. He now had what to him was
opulence: but opulence did not satisfy him. For money indeed he had
never scrupled to be guilty of fraud aggravated by hypocrisy; yet the
love of money was not his strongest passion. Long habits had developed
in him a moral disease from, which people who make political agitation
their calling are seldom wholly free. He could not be quiet. Sedition,
from being his business, had become his pleasure. It was as impossible
for him to live without doing mischief as for an old dram drinker or
an old opium eater to live without the daily dose of poison. The very
discomforts and hazards of a lawless life had a strange attraction for
him. He could no more be turned into a peaceable and loyal subject than
the fox can be turned into a shepherd's dog, or than the kite can be
taught the habits of the barn door fowl. The Red Indian prefers his
hunting ground to cultivated fields and stately cities: the gipsy,
sheltered by a commodious roof, and provided with meat in due season,
still pines for the ragged tent on the moor and the meal of carrion, and
even so Ferguson became weary of plenty and security, of his salary, his
house, his table and his coach, and longed to be again the president
of societies where none could enter without a password, the director of
secret presses, the distributor of inflammatory pamphlets; to see the
walls placarded with descriptions of his Person and offers of reward for
his apprehension; to have six or seven names, with a different wig and
cloak for each, and to change his lodgings thrice a week at dead
of night. His hostility was not to Popery or to Protestantism, to
monarchical government or to republican government, to the House of
Stuart or to the House of Nassau, but to whatever was at the time
established.
By the Jacobites this new ally was eagerly welcomed. They were at that
moment busied with schemes in which the help of a veteran plotter was
much needed. There had been a great stir among them from the day on
which it had been announced that William had determined to take the
command in Ireland; and they were all looking forward with impatient
hope to his departure.--He was not a prince against whom men lightly
venture to set up a standard of rebellion. His courage, his sagacity,
the secrecy of his counsels, the success which had generally crowned
his enterprises, overawed the vulgar. Even his most acrimonious
enemies feared him at least as much as they hated him. While he was at
Kensington, ready to take horse at a moment's notice, malecontents who
prized their heads and their estates were generally content to vent
their hatred by drinking confusion to his hooked nose, and by squeezing
with significant energy the orange which was his emblem. But their
courage rose when they reflected that the sea would soon roll between
him and our island. In the military and political calculations of that
age, thirty leagues of water were as important as three hundred leagues
now are. The winds and waves frequently interrupted all communication
between England and Ireland. It sometimes happened that, during a
fortnight or three weeks, not a word of intelligence from London reached
Dublin. Twenty English counties might be up in arms long before any
rumour that an insurrection was even apprehended could reach Ulster.
Early in the spring, therefore, the leading malecontents assembled in
London for the purpose of concerting an extensive plan of action, and
corresponded assiduously both with France and with Ireland.
Such was the temper of the English factions when, on the twentieth of
March, the new Parliament met. The first duty which the Commons had to
perform was that of choosing a Speaker. Trevor was proposed by Lowther,
was elected without opposition, and was presented and approved with the
ordinary ceremonial. The King then made a speech in which he especially
recommended to the consideration of the Houses two important subjects,
the settling of the revenue and the granting of an amnesty. He
represented strongly the necessity of despatch. Every day was precious,
the season for action was approaching. "Let not us," he said, "be
engaged in debates while our enemies are in the field." [595]
The first subject which the Commons took into consideration was the
state of the revenue. A great part of the taxes had, since the accession
of William and Mary, been collected under the authority of Acts passed
for short terms, and it was now time to determine on a permanent
arrangement. A list of the salaries and pensions for which provision was
to be made was laid before the House; and the amount of the sums thus
expended called forth very just complaints from the independent members,
among whom Sir Charles Sedley distinguished himself by his sarcastic
pleasantry. A clever speech which he made against the placemen
stole into print and was widely circulated: it has since been often
republished; and it proves, what his poems and plays might make us
doubt, that his contemporaries were not mistaken in considering him as a
man of parts and vivacity. Unfortunately the ill humour which the sight
of the Civil List caused evaporated in jests and invectives without
producing any reform.
The ordinary revenue by which the government had been supported before
the Revolution had been partly hereditary, and had been partly drawn
from taxes granted to each sovereign for life. The hereditary revenue
had passed, with the crown, to William and Mary. It was derived from the
rents of the royal domains, from fees, from fines, from wine licenses,
from the first fruits and tenths of benefices, from the receipts of the
Post Office, and from that part of the excise which had, immediately
after the Restoration, been granted to Charles the Second and to his
successors for ever in lieu of the feudal services due to our ancient
kings. The income from all these sources was estimated at between four
and five hundred thousand pounds, [596]
Those duties of excise and customs which had been granted to James for
life had, at the close of his reign, yielded about nine hundred thousand
pounds annually. William naturally wished to have this income on the
same terms on which his uncle had enjoyed it; and his ministers did
their best to gratify his wishes. Lowther moved that the grant should
be to the King and Queen for their joint and separate lives, and
spoke repeatedly and earnestly in defence of this motion. He set forth
William's claims to public gratitude and confidence; the nation rescued
from Popery and arbitrary power; the Church delivered from persecution;
the constitution established on a firm basis. Would the Commons deal
grudgingly with a prince who had done more for England than had ever
been done for her by any of his predecessors in so short a time, with
a prince who was now about to expose himself to hostile weapons and
pestilential air in order to preserve the English colony in Ireland,
with a prince who was prayed for in every corner of the world where a
congregation of Protestants could meet for the worship of God? [597] But
on this subject Lowther harangued in vain. Whigs and Tories were equally
fixed in the opinion that the liberality of Parliaments had been the
chief cause of the disasters of the last thirty years; that to
the liberality of the Parliament of 1660 was to be ascribed the
misgovernment of the Cabal; that to the liberality of the Parliament
of 1685 was to be ascribed the Declaration of Indulgence, and that the
Parliament of 1690 would be inexcusable if it did not profit by a long,
a painful, an unvarying experience. After much dispute a compromise
was made. That portion of the excise which had been settled for life on
James, and which was estimated at three hundred thousand pounds a year,
was settled on William and Mary for their joint and separate lives. It
was supposed that, with the hereditary revenue, and with three hundred
thousand a year more from the excise, their Majesties would have,
independent of parliamentary control, between seven and eight hundred
thousand a year. Out of this income was to be defrayed the charge both
of the royal household and of those civil offices of which a list had
been laid before the House. This income was therefore called the Civil
List. The expenses of the royal household are now entirely separated
from the expenses of the civil government; but, by a whimsical
perversion, the name of Civil List has remained attached to that portion
of the revenue which is appropriated to the expenses of the royal
household. It is still more strange that several neighbouring nations
should have thought this most unmeaning of all names worth borrowing.
Those duties of customs which had been settled for life on Charles and
James successively, and which, in the year before the Revolution, had
yielded six hundred thousand pounds, were granted to the Crown for a
term of only four years, [598]
William was by no means well pleased with this arrangement. He thought
it unjust and ungrateful in a people whose liberties he had saved to
bind him over to his good behaviour. "The gentlemen of England," he said
to Burnet, "trusted King James who was an enemy of their religion and of
their laws; and they will not trust me by whom their religion and their
laws have been preserved." Burnet answered very properly that there was
no mark of personal confidence which His Majesty was not entitled
to demand, but that this question was not a question of personal
confidence. The Estates of the Realm wished to establish a general
principle. They wished to set a precedent which might secure a remote
posterity against evils such as the indiscreet liberality of former
Parliaments had produced. "From those evils Your Majesty has delivered
this generation. By accepting the gift of the Commons on the terms on
which it is offered Your Majesty will be also a deliverer of future
generations." William was not convinced; but he had too much wisdom and
selfcommand to give way to his ill humour; and he accepted graciously
what he could not but consider as ungraciously given, [599]
The Civil List was charged with an annuity of twenty thousand pounds to
the Princess of Denmark, in addition to an annuity of thirty thousand
pounds which had been settled on her at the time of her marriage. This
arrangement was the result of a compromise which had been effected with
much difficulty and after many irritating disputes. The King and Queen
had never, since the commencement of their reign, been on very good
terms with their sister. That William should have been disliked by a
woman who had just sense enough to perceive that his temper was sour and
his manners repulsive, and who was utterly incapable of appreciating his
higher qualities, is not extraordinary. But Mary was made to be loved.
So lively and intelligent a woman could not indeed derive much pleasure
from the society of Anne, who, when in good humour, was meekly stupid,
and, when in bad humour, was sulkily stupid. Yet the Queen, whose
kindness had endeared her to her humblest attendants, would hardly have
made an enemy of one whom it was her duty and her interest to make a
friend, had not an influence strangely potent and strangely malignant
been incessantly at work to divide the Royal House against itself.
The fondness of the Princess for Lady Marlborough was such as, in a
superstitious age, would have been ascribed to some talisman or potion.
Not only had the friends, in their confidential intercourse with each
other, dropped all ceremony and all titles, and become plain Mrs. Morley
and plain Mrs. Freeman; but even Prince George, who cared as much for
the dignity of his birth as he was capable of caring for any thing but
claret and calvered salmon, submitted to be Mr. Morley. The Countess
boasted that she had selected the name of Freeman because it was
peculiarly suited to the frankness and boldness of her character; and,
to do her justice, it was not by the ordinary arts of courtiers that she
established and long maintained her despotic empire over the feeblest of
minds, She had little of that tact which is the characteristic talent of
her sex; she was far too violent to flatter or to dissemble: but, by
a rare chance, she had fallen in with a nature on which dictation and
contradiction acted as philtres. In this grotesque friendship all
the loyalty, the patience, the selfdevotion, was on the side of the
mistress. The whims, the haughty airs, the fits of ill temper, were on
the side of the waiting woman.
Nothing is more curious than the relation in which the two ladies stood
to Mr. Freeman, as they called Marlborough. In foreign countries people
knew in general that Anne was governed by the Churchills. They knew also
that the man who appeared to enjoy so large a share of her favour was
not only a great soldier and politician, but also one of the finest
gentlemen of his time, that his face and figure were eminently handsome,
his temper at once bland and resolute, his manners at once engaging
and noble. Nothing could be more natural than that graces and
accomplishments like his should win a female heart. On the Continent
therefore many persons imagined that he was Anne's favoured lover; and
he was so described in contemporary French libels which have long been
forgotten. In England this calumny never found credit even with the
vulgar, and is nowhere to be found even in the most ribald doggrel that
was sung about our streets. In truth the Princess seems never to have
been guilty of a thought inconsistent with her conjugal vows. To her
Marlborough, with all his genius and his valour, his beauty and his
grace, was nothing but the husband of her friend. Direct power over
Her Royal Highness he had none. He could influence her only by the
instrumentality of his wife; and his wife was no passive instrument.
Though it is impossible to discover, in any thing that she ever did,
said or wrote, any indication of superior understanding, her fierce
passions and strong will enabled her often to rule a husband who was
born to rule grave senates and mighty armies. His courage, that courage
which the most perilous emergencies of war only made cooler and more
steady, failed him when he had to encounter his Sarah's ready tears
and voluble reproaches, the poutings of her lip and the tossings of her
head. History exhibits to us few spectacles more remarkable than that
of a great and wise man, who, when he had combined vast and profound
schemes of policy, could carry them into effect only by inducing one
foolish woman, who was often unmanageable, to manage another woman who
was more foolish still.
In one point the Earl and the Countess were perfectly agreed. They were
equally bent on getting money; though, when it was got, he loved to
hoard it, and she was not unwilling to spend it, [600] The favour of the
Princess they both regarded as a valuable estate. In her father's reign,
they had begun to grow rich by means of her bounty. She was naturally
inclined to parsimony; and, even when she was on the throne, her
equipages and tables were by no means sumptuous, [601] It might have
been thought, therefore, that, while she was a subject, thirty thousand
a year, with a residence in the palace, would have been more than
sufficient for all her wants. There were probably not in the kingdom two
noblemen possessed of such an income. But no income would satisfy the
greediness of those who governed her. She repeatedly contracted debts
which James repeatedly discharged, not without expressing much surprise
and displeasure.
The Revolution opened to the Churchills a new and boundless prospect of
gain. The whole conduct of their mistress at the great crisis had proved
that she had no will, no judgment, no conscience, but theirs. To
them she had sacrificed affections, prejudices, habits, interests. In
obedience to them, she had joined in the conspiracy against her father;
she had fled from Whitehall in the depth of winter, through ice and
mire, to a hackney coach; she had taken refuge in the rebel camp; she
had consented to yield her place in the order of succession to the
Prince of Orange. They saw with pleasure that she, over whom they
possessed such boundless influence, possessed no common influence over
others. Scarcely had the Revolution been accomplished when many Tories,
disliking both the King who had been driven out and the King who had
come in, and doubting whether their religion had more to fear from
Jesuits or from Latitudinarians, showed a strong disposition to rally
round Anne. Nature had made her a bigot. Such was the constitution of
her mind that to the religion of her nursery she could not but adhere,
without examination and without doubt, till she was laid in her coffin.
In the court of her father she had been deaf to all that could be urged
in favour of transubstantiation and auricular confession. In the court
of her brother in law she was equally deaf to all that could be urged in
favour of a general union among Protestants. This slowness and obstinacy
made her important. It was a great thing to be the only member of the
Royal Family who regarded Papists and Presbyterians with an impartial
aversion. While a large party was disposed to make her an idol, she was
regarded by her two artful servants merely as a puppet. They knew that
she had it in her power to give serious annoyance to the government; and
they determined to use this power in order to extort money, nominally
for her, but really for themselves. While Marlborough was commanding
the English forces in the Low Countries, the execution of the plan was
necessarily left to his wife; and she acted, not as he would doubtless
have acted, with prudence and temper, but, as is plain even from her own
narrative, with odious violence and insolence. Indeed she had passions
to gratify from which he was altogether free. He, though one of the most
covetous, was one of the least acrimonious of mankind; but malignity
was in her a stronger passion than avarice. She hated easily; she hated
heartily; and she hated implacably. Among the objects of her hatred were
all who were related to her mistress either on the paternal or on the
maternal side. No person who had a natural interest in the Princess
could observe without uneasiness the strange infatuation which made her
the slave of an imperious and reckless termagant. This the Countess well
knew. In her view the Royal Family and the family of Hyde, however they
might differ as to other matters, were leagued against her; and she
detested them all, James, William and Mary, Clarendon and Rochester. Now
was the time to wreak the accumulated spite of years. It was not enough
to obtain a great, a regal, revenue for Anne. That revenue must be
obtained by means which would wound and humble those whom the favourite
abhorred. It must not be asked, it must not be accepted, as a mark of
fraternal kindness, but demanded in hostile tones, and wrung by force
from reluctant hands. No application was made to the King and Queen. But
they learned with astonishment that Lady Marlborough was indefatigable
in canvassing the Tory members of Parliament, that a Princess's party
was forming, that the House of Commons would be moved to settle on Her
Royal Highness a vast income independent of the Crown. Mary asked her
sister what these proceedings meant. "I hear," said Anne, "that my
friends have a mind to make me some settlement." It is said that the
Queen, greatly hurt by an expression which seemed to imply that she and
her husband were not among her sister's friends, replied with unwonted
sharpness, "Of what friends do you speak? What friends have you except
the King and me?" [602] The subject was never again mentioned between
the sisters. Mary was probably sensible that she had made a mistake in
addressing herself to one who was merely a passive instrument in the
hands of others. An attempt was made to open a negotiation with the
Countess. After some inferior agents had expostulated with her in
vain, Shrewsbury waited on her. It might have been expected that
his intervention would have been successful; for, if the scandalous
chronicle of those times could be trusted, he had stood high, too high,
in her favour, [603] He was authorised by the King to promise that, if
the Princess would desist from soliciting the members of the House of
Commons to support her cause, the income of Her Royal Highness should
be increased from thirty thousand pounds to fifty thousand. The Countess
flatly rejected this offer. The King's word, she had the insolence to
hint, was not a sufficient security. "I am confident," said Shrewsbury,
"that His Majesty will strictly fulfil his engagements. If he breaks
them I will not serve him an hour longer." "That may be very honourable
in you," answered the pertinacious vixen, "but it will be very poor
comfort to the Princess." Shrewsbury, after vainly attempting to move
the servant, was at length admitted to an audience of the mistress.
Anne, in language doubtless dictated by her friend Sarah, told him that
the business had gone too far to be stopped, and must be left to the
decision of the Commons, [604]
The truth was that the Princess's prompters hoped to obtain from
Parliament a much larger sum than was offered by the King. Nothing less
than seventy thousand a year would content them. But their cupidity
overreached itself. The House of Commons showed a great disposition to
gratify Her Royal Highness. But, when at length her too eager adherents
ventured to name the sum which they wished to grant, the murmurs were
loud. Seventy thousand a year at a time when the necessary expenses of
the State were daily increasing, when the receipt of the customs was
daily diminishing, when trade was low, when every gentleman, every
farmer, was retrenching something from the charge of his table and
his cellar! The general opinion was that the sum which the King was
understood to be willing to give would be amply sufficient, [605] At
last something was conceded on both sides. The Princess was forced to
content herself with fifty thousand a year; and William agreed that
this sum should be settled on her by Act of Parliament. She rewarded the
services of Lady Marlborough with a pension of a thousand a year; [606]
but this was in all probability a very small part of what the Churchills
gained by the arrangement.
After these transactions the two royal sisters continued during many
months to live on terms of civility and even of apparent friendship. But
Mary, though she seems to have borne no malice to Anne, undoubtedly felt
against Lady Marlborough as much resentment as a very gentle heart is
capable of feeling. Marlborough had been out of England during a great
part of the time which his wife had spent in canvassing among the
Tories, and, though he had undoubtedly acted in concert with her, had
acted, as usual, with temper and decorum. He therefore continued to
receive from William many marks of favour which were unaccompanied by
any indication of displeasure.
In the debates on the settling of the revenue, the distinction between
Whigs and Tories does not appear to have been very clearly marked. In
truth, if there was any thing about which the two parties were agreed,
it was the expediency of granting the customs to the Crown for a time
not exceeding four years. But there were other questions which called
forth the old animosity in all its strength. The Whigs were now in a
minority, but a minority formidable in numbers, and more formidable in
ability. They carried on the parliamentary war, not less acrimoniously
than when they were a majority, but somewhat more artfully. They brought
forward several motions, such as no High Churchman could well support,
yet such as no servant of William and Mary could well oppose. The Tory
who voted for these motions would run a great risk of being pointed at
as a turncoat by the sturdy Cavaliers of his county. The Tory who voted
against those motions would run a great risk of being frowned upon at
Kensington.
It was apparently in pursuance of this policy that the Whigs laid on the
table of the House of Lords a bill declaring all the laws passed by the
late Parliament to be valid laws. No sooner had this bill been read than
the controversy of the preceeding spring was renewed. The Whigs were
joined on this occasion by almost all those noblemen who were connected
with the government. The rigid Tories, with Nottingham at their head,
professed themselves willing to enact that every statute passed in 1689
should have the same force that it would have had if it had been passed
by a parliament convoked in a regular manner; but nothing would induce
them to acknowledge that an assembly of lords and gentlemen, who
had come together without authority from the Great Seal, was
constitutionally a Parliament. Few questions seem to have excited
stronger passions than the question, practically altogether unimportant,
whether the bill should or should not be declaratory. Nottingham, always
upright and honourable, but a bigot and a formalist, was on this subject
singularly obstinate and unreasonable. In one debate he lost his temper,
forgot the decorum which in general he strictly observed, and narrowly
escaped being committed to the custody of the Black Rod, [607] After
much wrangling, the Whigs carried their point by a majority of seven,
[608] Many peers signed a strong protest written by Nottingham. In
this protest the bill, which was indeed open to verbal criticism, was
impolitely described as being neither good English nor good sense. The
majority passed a resolution that the protest should be expunged; and
against this resolution Nottingham and his followers again protested,
[609] The King was displeased by the pertinacity of his Secretary of
State; so much displeased indeed that Nottingham declared his intention
of resigning the Seals; but the dispute was soon accommodated. William
was too wise not to know the value of an honest man in a dishonest age.
The very scrupulosity which made Nottingham a mutineer was a security
that he would never be a traitor, [610]
The bill went down to the Lower House; and it was full expected that the
contest there would be long and fierce; but a single speech settled the
question. Somers, with a force and eloquence which surprised even an
audience accustomed to hear him with pleasure, exposed the absurdity of
the doctrine held by the high Tories. "If the Convention,"--it was thus
that he argued,--"was not a Parliament, how can we be a Parliament? An
Act of Elizabeth provides that no person shall sit or vote in this House
till he has taken the old oath of supremacy. Not one of us has taken
that oath. Instead of it, we have all taken the new oath of supremacy
which the late Parliament substituted for the old oath. It is therefore
a contradiction to say that the Acts of the late Parliament are not now
valid, and yet to ask us to enact that they shall henceforth be valid.
For either they already are so, or we never can make them so." This
reasoning, which was in truth as unanswerable as that of Euclid,
brought the debate to a speedy close. The bill passed the Commons within
forty-eight hours after it had been read the first time, [611]
This was the only victory won by the Whigs during the whole session.
They complained loudly in the Lower House of the change which had been
made in the military government of the city of London. The Tories,
conscious of their strength, and heated by resentment, not only refused
to censure what had been done, but determined to express publicly and
formally their gratitude to the King for having brought in so many
churchmen and turned out so many schismatics. An address of thanks was
moved by Clarges, member for Westminster, who was known to be attached
to Caermarthen. "The alterations which have been made in the City," said
Clarges, "show that His Majesty has a tender care of us. I hope that
he will make similar alterations in every county of the realm." The
minority struggled hard. "Will you thank the King," they said, "for
putting the sword into the hands of his most dangerous enemies? Some of
those whom he has been advised to entrust with military command have not
yet been able to bring themselves to take the oath of allegiance to him.
Others were well known, in the evil days, as stanch jurymen, who were
sure to find an Exclusionist guilty on any evidence or no evidence."
Nor did the Whig orators refrain from using those topics on which all
factions are eloquent in the hour of distress, and which all factions
are but too ready to treat lightly in the hour of prosperity. "Let us
not," they said, "pass a vote which conveys a reflection on a large body
of our countrymen, good subjects, good Protestants. The King ought to be
the head of his whole people. Let us not make him the head of a party."
This was excellent doctrine; but it scarcely became the lips of men who,
a few weeks before, had opposed the Indemnity Bill and voted for the
Sacheverell Clause. The address was carried by a hundred and eighty-five
votes to a hundred and thirty-six, [612]
As soon as the numbers had been announced, the minority, smarting
from their defeat, brought forward a motion which caused no little
embarrassment to the Tory placemen. The oath of allegiance, the Whigs
said, was drawn in terms far too lax. It might exclude from public
employment a few honest Jacobites who were generally too dull to be
mischievous; but it was altogether inefficient as a means of binding the
supple and slippery consciences of cunning priests, who, while affecting
to hold the Jesuits in abhorrence, were proficients in that immoral
casuistry which was the worst part of Jesuitism. Some grave divines had
openly said, others had even dared to write, that they had sworn fealty
to William in a sense altogether different from that in which they had
sworn fealty to James. To James they had plighted the entire faith which
a loyal subject owes to a rightful sovereign; but, when they promised
to bear true allegiance to William, they meant only that they would not,
whilst he was able to hang them for rebelling or conspiring against him,
run any risk of being hanged. None could wonder that the precepts and
example of the malecontent clergy should have corrupted the malecontent
laity. When Prebendaries and Rectors were not ashamed to avow that they
had equivocated, in the very act of kissing the New Testament, it was
hardly to be expected that attorneys and taxgatherers would be more
scrupulous. The consequence was that every department swarmed with
traitors; that men who ate the King's bread, men who were entrusted with
the duty of collecting and disbursing his revenues, of victualling his
ships, of clothing his soldiers, of making his artillery ready for the
field, were in the habit of calling him an usurper, and of drinking to
his speedy downfall. Could any government be safe which was hated and
betrayed by its own servants? And was not the English government exposed
to the dangers which, even if all its servants were true, might well
excite serious apprehensions? A disputed succession, war with France,
war in Scotland, war in Ireland, was not all this enough without
treachery in every arsenal and in every custom house? There must be an
oath drawn in language too precise to be explained away, in language
which no Jacobite could repeat without the consciousness that he was
perjuring himself. Though the zealots of indefeasible hereditary right
had in general no objection to swear allegiance to William, they would
probably not choose to abjure James. On such grounds as these, an
Abjuration Bill of extreme severity was brought into the House of
Commons. It was proposed to enact that every person who held any office,
civil, military, or spiritual, should, on pain of deprivation, solemnly
abjure the exiled King; that the oath of abjuration might be tendered by
any justice of the peace to any subject of their Majesties; and that, if
it were refused, the recusant should be sent to prison, and should lie
there as long as he continued obstinate.
The severity of this last provision was generally and most justly
blamed. To turn every ignorant meddling magistrate into a state
inquisitor, to insist that a plain man, who lived peaceably, who obeyed
the laws, who paid his taxes, who had never held and who did not expect
ever to hold any office, and who had never troubled his head about
problems of political philosophy, should declare, under the sanction
of an oath, a decided opinion on a point about which the most learned
Doctors of the age had written whole libraries of controversial books,
and to send him to rot in a gaol if he could not bring himself to swear,
would surely have been the height of tyranny. The clause which required
public functionaries to abjure the deposed King was not open to the same
objections. Yet even against this clause some weighty arguments
were urged. A man, it was said, who has an honest heart and a sound
understanding is sufficiently bound by the present oath. Every such
man, when he swears to be faithful and to bear true allegiance to King
William, does, by necessary implication, abjure King James. There
may doubtless be among the servants of the State, and even among the
ministers of the Church, some persons who have no sense of honour or
religion, and who are ready to forswear themselves for lucre. There may
be others who have contracted the pernicious habit of quibbling away the
most sacred obligations of morality, and who have convinced themselves
that they can innocently make, with a mental reservation, a promise
which it would be sinful to make without such a reservation. Against
these two classes of Jacobites it is true that the present test affords
no security. But will the new test, will any test, be more efficacious?
Will a person who has no conscience, or a person whose conscience can be
set at rest by immoral sophistry, hesitate to repeat any phrase that you
can dictate? The former will kiss the book without any scruple at all.
The scruples of the latter will be very easily removed. He now swears
allegiance to one King with a mental reservation. He will then abjure
the other King with a mental reservation. Do not flatter yourselves that
the ingenuity of lawgivers will ever devise an oath which the ingenuity
of casuists will not evade. What indeed is the value of any oath in
such a matter? Among the many lessons which the troubles of the last
generation have left us none is more plain than this, that no form of
words, however precise, no imprecation, however awful, ever saved, or
ever will save, a government from destruction, Was not the Solemn League
and Covenant burned by the common hangman amidst the huzzas of tens
of thousands who had themselves subscribed it? Among the statesmen and
warriors who bore the chief part in restoring Charles the Second, how
many were there who had not repeatedly abjured him? Nay, is it not well
known that some of those persons boastfully affirmed that, if they had
not abjured him, they never could have restored him?
The debates were sharp; and the issue during a short time seemed
doubtful; for some of the Tories who were in office were unwilling to
give a vote which might be thought to indicate that they were lukewarm
in the cause of the King whom they served. William, however, took care
to let it be understood that he had no wish to impose a new test on his
subjects. A few words from him decided the event of the conflict. The
bill was rejected thirty-six hours after it had been brought in by a
hundred and ninety-two votes to a hundred and sixty-five, [613]
Even after this defeat the Whigs pertinaciously returned to the attack.
Having failed in one House they renewed the battle in the other. Five
days after the Abjuration Bill had been thrown out in the Commons,
another Abjuration Bill, somewhat milder, but still very severe, was
laid on the table of the Lords, [614] What was now proposed was that
no person should sit in either House of Parliament or hold any office,
civil, military, or judicial, without making a declaration that he would
stand by William and Mary against James and James's adherents. Every
male in the kingdom who had attained the age of sixteen was to make the
same declaration before a certain day. If he failed to do so he was
to pay double taxes and to be incapable of exercising the elective
franchise.
On the day fixed for the second reading, the King came down to the House
of Peers. He gave his assent in form to several laws, unrobed, took his
seat on a chair of state which had been placed for him, and listened
with much interest to the debate. To the general surprise, two noblemen
who had been eminently zealous for the Revolution spoke against the
proposed test. Lord Wharton, a Puritan who had fought for the Long
Parliament, said, with amusing simplicity, that he was a very old man,
that he had lived through troubled times, that he had taken a great many
oaths in his day, and that he was afraid that he had not kept them all.
He prayed that the sin might not be laid to his charge; and he declared
that he could not consent to lay any more snares for his own soul and
for the souls of h